


Shakespeare and Company:               The American and The Irishman

by weekendsareforwhiskey



Series: Her and Him [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, I never thought I'd tag this but, Lots of wine, a world in which Cat and Eddard aren't Sansa's parents, but I swear that doesn't matter, pretentious literature snobbery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:49:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekendsareforwhiskey/pseuds/weekendsareforwhiskey
Summary: "They lived and laughed and loved and left." -Finnegan's Wake, James JoyceA brief Parisian hopeless romantic bookshop story.But the loved part is up for debate.





	1. Her and Him

Her and Him.

Paris, France. Winter. 2017. 

 

Her

Freezing, but good. It’s nothing she hasn’t experienced before. Except she was way better prepared in the mountains, whose cold matches Paris’s, than she is outside of this store.

Which in her excited fervor read the hours wrong online before she hopped on the Metro. Now her U.S. phone is not connected to any airwave in Paris and she’s outside waiting.

Two other tourists wait near her.

They laugh excitedly and she smiles.

They’re Americans too who have Masters in English and have visited twice before.

But it never gets old they say.

She is so close. Only a locked door separates her from the land of

The Losts.

The Beats.

Shakespeare.

They’re all in front of her and she just needs to wait…a half hour more.

 

Him

Another day, another waste.

The bed creaks under his weight. He can already hear loud tourists outside and he shifts to drown their laughter with a pillow.

The honks, the constant traffic he’s used to.

But the loud Americans.

The loud British.

The loud Russians.

Every single tourist who doesn’t understand how Paris works. They’re constantly changing so he can never get used to the hub they cause outside his window.

Every morning they’re all just outside waiting anxiously to get in.

To see the Losts.

To see the Beats.

The cat and then they’re gone.

They snap photos even though they shouldn’t.

Buy a book for a stamp, and they’re gone. Leaving only their Instagram footprint.

 

Her

She gets a coffee because it’s so cold. She wanted to wait for the connected café to open, but her hands are numb in their thin thin gloves. So she walks to a nearby café and pays 2 euro for espresso. She sips.

It does little to ease the tingling in her fingers, but the café’s heat lamps assaude it a little. She counts out the change to get rid of the tiny coins that have built up and she returns to the fog and hopefully to her commercial home away from her student apartment for the next few weeks.

The doors are still closed, but the lights are on and the two girls from earlier are gone. She enters the store.

 

Him

He enters the bookshop through the upstairs entrance. Cat hates when he does it, but she’s gone for two weeks and there are already too many people to deal with outside. So he sneaks through the floral wallpapered room with the desk, the haphazardly stacked books, the portrait of Sylvia Beach, and pauses to take a look at the second best part of working here.

The view of Notre-Dame. Through the wooden window pane, through the fog, the massive cathedral stands tall. The fog is extremely thick this morning and he can hardly see it, but it’s even more beautiful that way. Hidden unless you look closely for long enough. He considers dealing with the lines to go to the top today. Perhaps. He’ll see what his shift brings him and then he’ll decide. He leaves Notre-Dame and Sylvia’s photo on the wall and creaks down the stairs. The painted greats looking upon at him with each passing step.

 

Her

Absolute perfection. She walks in and it’s amazing. It holds every dream she’s ever had and she nearly cries.

The immediate blast into history starts with the first sight when she walks in. Bookshelves dedicated to Kerouac, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Beach, Stein, Joyce.

 Even the employee at the register to her right matches her dreams.

A rumpled grey sweater over a blue collared Oxford. Ruffled curly hair with a touch of grey at the edges. Yet he seems younger than the grey leads her to believe. There's no doubt he's one of the artists in residence. Or at least her imagination will leave it that way.

“Good morning.”

A grimace graces his mouth and he places his attention on a battered book.

_Bonjour._

You’re in Paris. She berates herself. But goes on.

Nothing can ruin this perfection.

 

Him

It’s one of _those_ mornings. Robert spent the night elsewhere and drank too much no doubt. Hence why he got _his_ call. Margaery probably got caught in the morning Metro rush hour that she never appropriately woke up in time to beat.

So that leaves him alone unlocking the store _and_ the café. Which can wait for Margaery at least. She can watch the store and he can go mix drinks and place the pastries Eddard delivered this morning. God he hates mornings like this. He sits staring at the commercial display of the Losts and Beats.

An American greets him as she walks in. Her hair as bright and loud as her accent. The bell chimes as the old green door slams. He'll have to prop that open later when it gets a little warmer. 

He gives her a tight smile and pulls out his copy of _The Universe in Your Hand_ biding his time, brushing up for the upcoming author Q&A, until Margaery arrives.

 

Her

Warm, and slowly. The day passes by. She takes her time exploring every nook and cranny first. Modern writers and all the classics. Sci-Fi, YA, children's lit, theatre, poetry, photography, art. They have it all.

The store is fairly busy, upon first opening, with avid fans of literature. She purchases a Lucky Dip immediately from the dour-faced, curly-haired hipster at the counter and she retreats to The Cave where her only companions are Aggie the cat and the badly tuned piano. And of course every single person who pops into the research library to take a look and some illegal photos.

The “No photos” signs posted around the first floor and stairs are bittersweet, but she appreciates the request at the behest of those who do spend their time in the quiet recesses of the store. She hunkers down with the forgotten Bronte sister she “luckily” received for six euro.

One. Two. Three. Four hours.

Then her stomach is grumbling. She realizes that a tourist diet if different than a starving artist's diet and now might be a good time to at least get a small treat of whatever the café offers.

All else fails coffee is never in short supply in Paris.

 

Him

Another cup of coffee. Another pot of Earl Grey.

Another slice of pecan pie. Margaery arrived with no apologies. Good. She’s learning the culture. She got to work immediately and nodded when he went to open the café. Fortunately the tourists of all types who gabbed outside his window were all distracted by the store.

He can marvel daily at those who truly get lost in a bookstore. Or a book. It is a lost art. But he still hated each and every one of them for falling for the gimmick. How many copies of _Ulysses_ and _A Moveable Feast_ did he stamp a day? His mind wandered as he steamed more milk for the café latte in front of him.

“Could you make sure there’s a design in the foam?” _For your social media? Are you even going to drink the coffee? Or is it just another pixelated square to you?_

But he stays silent and makes a milky heart and thinks about what Orwell said about how working in a bookshop ruining books for him.

He understands that sentiment.

“Hi, how are you?” she smiles.

“I'm well. What would you like?”

 

Her

“Could I get a flat white please?”

 _You’re not supposed to smile. You’re supposed to speak in French. You’re doing this transaction as a soft American peach and not a reserved French coconut_ as her teachers abroad so  _kindly_ told her. 

But it’s already over.

“Five euro, please.”

“Of course!” She’s too loud. She rifles through her purse. “Oh god I think I left-” her hand grabs onto her wallet. “Never mind sorry.”

She glances behind her, but there’s no line. 

He still looks beyond annoyed.

“I’m so sorry. Here.”

Three coins drop into his hand.

“Thank you very much.” She turns to find a seat.

“Wait.” He speaks up and with that ever-present frown asks, “To stay or takeaway?”

“Erm, oh to stay.”

The constant second-guessing herself has completely ruined her social skills. As if she needed another thing to be internally overthinking and freaking out about. But it’s over. He’s completely moved onto making her drink. She notices his collar is flipped up at the neck, he rubs at his shoulder then runs his hand through his hair.

There’s been enough foolishness out of her mouth, she vows to stay quiet today. A stool at the bar facing Notre-Dame beckons her. Anne Brontë is her companion for this beautiful view.

 

Him

Cat's supposed to be in Syria by now and when she arrived she was supposed to call him and then text the Tumbleweeds. Cat still hasn’t called him and now he’s actually worried.

She’s done neither. Normally he wouldn’t worry about her, but it’s Syria. And she’s heading right to the heart of the strife for her writing. Or as close to the heart as a British-French citizen is allowed to get. All _for her writing_ that she just has to do abroad and not from home. While he’s proud of her he’s still worried and pissed that she hasn’t told anyone whether or not she landed safely and traveled by car into the country.

“Um hello?”

He looks up to see the red haired American again. A hundred plus people have passed through the doors and yet she’s been here since opening. Or was it yesterday she came in? She was probably outside his window gabbing. This morning he was allowed a brief respite from tourists. They all slept in apparently. Or learned to keep quieter than the passing buses and cars. 

“Yes?”

“I know this isn’t truly your job description, but are there any places you would recommend to eat at?”

The urge to roll his eyes almost overcomes him. “Are you a Lost or a Beat?” He’s pretty sure he sold her a copy of _A Moveable Feast_ yesterday so he already knows the answer.

“Well I am partial to Joyce and Hemingway…”

“ _Les deux Magots_ then.”

She laughs, “Well I already went there. I’m afraid the appeal is gone when they sell pens with the café’s name for 18 euro and there’s a Louis Vuitton across the street. I mean St. Germain  _used_ to be the literary scene, but where’s the new one?”

Oh god is he so sick of these.

“Just stick to Montmarte. That'll be the type of area you're looking for. Stay away from Bastille at night. They say it’s got the best pubs, but only for locals. You obviously need more French lessons before you can pass for that though.”

The dampened look in her eye is almost enough to make him feel a little empathy, but there’s another guest behind her so she moves to the side like the polite little American she is and he continues on with his day. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he snaps his fingers at Timothy who finishes off a matcha latte and mans the cash register.

 _Hello all I’m here!_ accompanies a selfie of Cat's pale face and shining copper hair in the bright sunshine of Syria.

 

Her 

With spirits shot down a bit she makes her way to Montmartre anyway. Her purple temporary Metro pass clenched in her hand in case she needs to switch stations again up above ground. 

_You obviously need more French lessons..._

It was stupid of her to expect that hopping on a plane with a French phrasebook and a positive attitude would get her anywhere. She couldn't imagine what it would be like if she wasn't studying abroad with her school. Granted the French teachers weren't much help. They mostly just told her everything she shouldn't do to stand out. Which she was obviously failing at by spending her free time outside of class at the famous English bookstore. If she had truly come here by herself with just a phrasebook she'd be holed up in a hostel somewhere instead of exploring. 

But she takes his advice anyway. The Metro shaking beneath her. Anne Brontë her lap. She is almost done. It was a nice story, but it doesn't fit her feelings at the moment. The eyes of the man next to her travel across the pages of her book. She smiles when she looks up at him, catching his eye. It's a mistake. Another.  

Her French adaptation seminar on her second day in the city:

_Don't smile. A smile on the Metro is an invitation. The French have no problem with staring. You catch eyes and look away. You don't smile at strangers._

She smacks her book closed on the receipt from the bookstore. The doors open and she hops out, a photobooth the likes of  _Amelie_ at the top of the stairs near the exit. A familiar idea to warm her heart as she explores another tourist area. 

A hill greets her when she turns to the right of the Metro exit. A city mountain in a sense. 

Sacré-cœur lies at the top. A monument of beauty and history that she cannot even comprehend. 

 

Him  
The group text is how he finds out she’s okay. The bloody group text. She was supposed to call him. She said she’d call him and then text the group text.

“I’ll be back in an hour. Go next door to Margaery if you need anything.”

He braces himself for the cold, pulls out his keys and goes next door to the Tumbleweed rooms. A coat from the closet, with gloves in the pockets, his thermos, and his notebook and pen are all he grabs. Then he’s down the stairs, back to the café to take some coffee, and out the door again in the cold. The wind beating against his face as he crosses the Seine towards the courtyard of pigeons and tourists. The bells chime and no one’s in line to climb to the top in this frigid air. He shows off his expired student ID and he’s up. He breathes in and out concentrating only on the stairs. 183 of them. Then he’s up at the top of Paris and he truly feels like he can breathe.

The emotions come at him at once. The anger. The sadness. The annoyance. Then disappear. He's free of them up here. The Eiffel Tower and Sacré-cœur in the distance.

* * *

 

Him 

“We love to understand stuff, we don’t like to be scared.”

“Honestly no one understands quantum mechanics.”

The talk is over with those last sentiments and laughter from the audience. A grin on his face as he ends the panel. He rakes a hand through his curls as everyone is rushing to the counter to purchase the book with the stamp and soon the author’s signature. It’s Cat's job to be moderator and then wine waitress on nights like this. Such a “high” honor and now that she’s safely in Syria he’s got to do it.

He sees red. The same red that has been on his radar the past couple of days, right behind going back and forth between worrying about and being angry at Cat. The American who has spent all week here it seems. Why the hell is she spending her entire week at the bookshop? He notices her join the queue of people waiting to speak to the quantum mechanics author.

“Would you like some wine?” The tray lies between them. 

“Oh yes please. Thank you.”

The book is tight in her grip. Her bright golden yellow coat draped over her arm. He wonders why she's here, specifically what's brought her to the bookstore over and over.

“You’ve been here every day I've been here actually. Are you one of the artists in residence?”

 _That’s quite a personal question_ , he wants to reply, but he doesn’t. She seems to know a bit about the store if she knows about the writers in residence. It doesn't mean he feels like flirting with this girl or just openly rude to her. Which they kind of mix with him, if he's being honest. 

“Oh it’s just a long week. A couple of staff are away on holiday. We don't actually keep that many on since it's different every time a writer comes to stay and work.”

“Ah I see. It must be quite a riot working here. Lots of people.”

Another person passes by to grab the last wine glass from the tray and he needs to get going. He needs to refill the tray with more cheap wine, but he doesn’t.

“It can be sometimes.”

“Has it ruined books for you?”

“Not at all just people.”

A laugh. “I could see that. I’ve always wanted to work in a bookshop, but Orwell’s personal essays gave me second thoughts. Oh excuse me.” The author is free for conversation so she goes.

She mentioned Orwell.

 

Her

Being in the front row of yet another talk at the store continues to strike her with awe.

This one a week later on what literature looks like under a totalitarian government. A bit different than the one on quantum mechanics, by an author who worked with Stephen Hawking. Both are equally inspiring and intriguing, but this one doesn’t go over her head quite as much as the other. And it's more relevant to her. With her plane and class leaving in just under a month to return to America. Post-Inauguration.

Questions form in her mind as the authors discuss writers being the first ones in jail when it comes to desperate dystopian times.  A post-modernist is right in saying there’s no hope, but we should still write and create art. She disagrees with the sentiment that there's no hope and mulls over the best way to put that into words. One panelist is a completely pessimistic, self-aggrandizing author who she cannot stand already, who truly epitomizes the worst stereotypes of writers.

When open questions come around and curly-haired hipster holds out a mic she raises her hand and speaks up when he passes it her way.

The author produces an argument for her criticism that she masked as a question, but the other two authors provide more thoughtful points. Pride and adrenaline course through her veins after she’s done speaking and listening. When the panel is done and she’s still riding high she strikes up a conversation with the author who annoys her.

“We’re all going out for drinks. Would you like to continue this discourse elsewhere?”

While she doesn’t like him, she watches the Shakespeare and Company crew putting their coats on and knows they’re all heading out as well.

“Absolutely.”

 

Him 

The bar is full as he’s drinking house wine sitting on a sheep stool. An actual seat shaped like a black sheep, so close to the floor that his bent knees almost touch his chest. Margaery snaps a photo as he glares up at her. 

"Oh come on. This one isn't half baaaad," she laughs. 

Armand laughs uproariously at another joke from a booth to his left. 

He refuses to look in the man's direction. He doesn't want to see the girl he's coerced into coming along. His eyes roll of their own accord at the idiotic author who he wanted to strangle during the entire panel. Eddard as a moderator fed Armand's ego as they switched off asking questions, if Eddard had been the only moderator none of the writers would have gotten a word in edgewise, but the red head American had knocked Armand down and he rather enjoyed that. They closed the shop and ended up here. All of the panelists, the bookshop writers, and a chosen few guests who tagged along.

“Seems Armand is expanding his horizons tonight. Eh?” Margaery who pined after Armand until she met him and soon realized what a pseudo-intellectual he was. He finally forces himself to look at who Armand has chosen for his one night stand and laughs. 

“I always thought he was a masochist. Guess he loves when a girl rips him a new one.”

“A _young_ girl. He does love his stereotypes. Ed and Rob are heading back home. I was thinking I might too. Wanna join?”

He stands and feels his notebook in his pocket, lying flat against his chest. It’s too loud at this trendy rooftop bar that everyone comes simply to sit on sheep seats and see Paris at night and its number one attraction in the distance. The Eiffel Tower’s searchlight brushes Margaery's’s face. He needs somewhere quiet. But not the Tumbleweed hotel.

“You go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Ugh you're a masochist too. Go do your therapeutic mopey writing about Cat.” She kisses his cheek, he returns the favor. "But please come back tonight. Don't stay until closing in some dive bar again. We'll wait up for you." Then she's off.

The bar begins to weed out slowly, still too loud, but he stays anyway. His wine getting warm in his hand. He sees a bit of Cat in the girl and he wants to keep her in his sights…Ah hell he doesn’t know her. After pulling on his coat for the 40th time that day, his brisk descent from the bar into the streets of Paris begins. He steps into the elevator. 

 

Her

This was a big mistake. This pretentious self-aggrandizing author with a stupid pseudonym has not stopped talking since they arrived at the rooftop bar. He shoved a glass of wine in her hand and without much ado went onto a long spree of names, places, pieces he’s written, and then she stopped listening.

And he’s still going.

She hasn’t gotten a chance to speak to any of the people she wants to. The strawberry blonde who she’s pretty sure is named Margaery and the curly haired hipster she has not stopped thinking about since her first day at Shakespeare and Company are laughing about something and the two other men who work at the bookstore are deep in conversation at the bar with the other two authors.

She is stuck on a wooden booth covered in a white furry rug. The trendy barn theme that seemed cute at first is getting progressively tackier and tackier in her mind.

Cynicism has corroded her mind. She blames it all on Armand.

Yet she has an excuse and it’s time for her to use it.

“I’m so sorry, but I have class in the morning unfortunately. I’m going to have to head out.”

The look on his face is unaffected.

“Oh of course! Ah the student life I do miss that. You sure you wouldn’t like one more drink? I’ve barely heard anything from you tonight. You’re so quiet! Are you a first year?”

His hand is on her knee now and she knows it’s _really_ time for her to make her exit.

“Fourth year so I really have to attend _all_ of my classes. No room for fixing _mistakes_. It was so great listening to you tonight.”

Then she’s up and practically sprinting to the door that leads to the elevator.

Thankfully there’s no one in it and she’s in the clear for a peaceful ride down. With a glance at her watch she confirms that it’s only midnight and her roommates are guaranteed to still be up if she can’t figure out the three lock Parisian door to their apartment.

She sighs. It could have been a spectacular night. She could have gotten to know the other authors or even just the writers from the bookstore, but no.

But at least, she thinks as she reaches for a pen and notebook from her purse, she’s got quite the character to write about now.

When the elevator finally comes down from the rooftop she already has a page and half.

 

Him

_They all drank. They all drank and traversed Paris and thought about women and how much they hated them._

_I’m doing the same exact thing._  Another sip of cognac and he puts pen to paper again.

_Except the women. Stein and Beach. They weren’t so awful._

Yet he’s so prone to think of Cat. Margaery’s voice in his head.

_Go do your therapeutic mopey writing about Cat._

 There's no point. His writing about Cat isn't any good. Cat liked his cynicism when he first came to the store, a folder full of type written papers. Ink smeared in some places. 

But his writing before he met her was different. Then once he spent a month with her all he wanted to do was write  _about her_. Yet it was sub-par. Below sub-par. It never was going to be good. In Paris there is so much inspiration and yet he finds himself in a stupid bar every night trying to channel the Lost Generation even though he holds scorn for every single person who comes to Paris to do the exact same thing. 

His pen scratches out the words he's written. The cognac is smooth, but he doesn't want more. There's a piece of charcoal in his coat pocket and he fumbles for it. Dragging it across the paper over the scratched out words. 

A bird appears in his mind after he puts down a few lines. He finishes it. Another image crosses his mind. A hand clutching a book. A yellow coat draped over an arm. He finishes the cognac. Black finger tips rub together over the coins in his other coat pocket. He places the lot of them on the counter with a 5 euro note. 

* * *

 

Him 

“Nice socks.” He murmurs. She’s the only one in the reading room and it’s a half hour before closing. Margaery’s all set downstairs to close so he takes it upon himself to double check the reading rooms upstairs before placing the velvet rope across the stairs. But _she’s_ up here. A regular face at the store now. It’s been a week since the totalitarian lit panel. Margaery knows her. Talks to her a lot. Even Eddard knows her order at the café and gives her a pastry for free.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why she’s always here by herself. Constantly reading in the only English bookstore in a city that she clearly doesn’t speak the language of. He doesn’t even know her name.

She looks up from her book then down at her socks as though she’s forgotten the face on them. “Oh thank you. I just really dig Shakespeare.”

“I can tell. You’ve been here almost every day for about two weeks now. Paris not up to your standards?”

A flush at his teasing and he hopes she understood it _was teasing_.

“It is, I’m just a creature of habit. It’s comfortable here. And…everyone speaks English.” She winces at the admission. “I know I’m a horrible tourist.”

He smirks, “Ah the truth of it. Do you mind if I sit down?”

Her book lays open and forgotten to her right. _The Universe in Your Hand_. So it wasn’t just a book for her to get an autograph and a stamp.

She shakes her head and reaches for the book to gently place on her lap. “Not at all. Please do.”

So he does.

 

Her 

Cross-legged. A chapter. One foot on the seat, one tucked beneath her. She leans on the raised knee. Two chapters. One leg crossed over the other. A chapter. Cross-legged again.

She’s almost done with _The Universe in Your Hand_ pages filled with underlined passages and annotations. There would be more if her phone worked and she could Google definitions. Certainly there is a dictionary in this research reading room, but she has taken advantage of being the only one in the room and made herself comfortable. In every position a reader can think of. Shoes are off, coat tucked in the corner like a makeshift pillow, book and notebook sprawled beside her, bags at the floor, but not hidden from the notorious Parisian pick-pockets.

It’s only her in here. Margaery should be up at any time since they close in half an hour. She's comfortable here because of the English writer who's invited her out for the night. Because she’s branched out.

Well sort of. Margaery handed her the branch the day she started a conversation with her, but she held on tight. Then there’s Ed who gives her free pastries and makes a pretty great flat white. Second to only one other barista.

But it’s only her in the room, reading and waiting. Until it’s not. She’s deep into part seven when she hears the stairs creaking so she moves her bag closer to her without taking her eyes off of the page. It's the coldest day she's been here and she understands why not very many people ventured out to the bookstore so close to the river.

“Nice socks.” She hears and she’s jerked out of deep space.

Which socks was she wearing? Banned books? Poe? A glance down reminds her, no, Shakespeare. Obviously.

Of course it’s curly-haired, broodingly pretentious, Irish barista who’s commenting on them.

“Oh thank you. I just really dig Shakespeare.”

There, that’s short and sweet. Not the full story of where she got them, why she loves Shakespeare, which plays are her favorites.

She’s over-thinking again and he’s still talking and _smiling_ for once. But he’s also being rude. Or is he joking with her? She replies with too much information. Per usual.

Yet he sits and crosses a leg. He’s not kicking her out and he’s making polite conversation. He's smiling. 

 

Him

"Petyr." 

 

Her 

"Sansa." 

 

Them 

"Nice to meet you." 

 

Her 

"Would you like to go out for a drink?" 

 

Him

"Absolutely." 


	2. Them

Tumbleweed Hotel, Last Door on the Left.

Winter. 2017

Them

“You were kind of an asshole to me when I first met you.”

“I’m kind of an asshole to every tourist who walks in the door, especially the ones who have been so unbearably loud right outside my window before opening.”

He kisses her shoulder. She rolls her eyes.

“I wasn’t that loud.”

“Listen.” They both measure their breathing and lying in silence, listen to the sounds outside his window. She hears the daily goings on of Paris in full swing. It’s no longer early morning, the shop doors open and slam shut, people laugh outside the café, the man advertising the restaurant next door yells about having a better cup of coffee than Shakespeare and Company can offer. She breathes a laugh.

“I doubt that. You do make a great flat white.”

“You hear though? What I have to deal with every morning.”

“The sounds of Paris are what you have to deal with? What a struggle.”

“The sounds of commercial tourism and obnoxious-”

“Oh poor you… Ah, stop that!” Their laughter mingles. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Never.”

“Who knew underneath all of that pretension there lies a warm-hearted tickler of all things.”

“I’m a man of many faces. Pretentious is offensive though.”

“Good.”

“Hey, come back here.”

Notre Dame shines. It’s still -32C, but the sun sparkles on the Seine and the bookstalls are open in full force. There are no carbon copy Barnes and Nobles on the Seine. Each stall holds similar objects, but nothing is a modern mass-produced carbon copy. She shivers. The wood beneath the window is like splintered ice underneath her feet.

“It’s warmer over here.”

“It’s a better view over here.”

“I’d take offense to that, but that big old cathedral is pretty stunning. And so are you.”

“Oh now that was bad.”

“And I’m the asshole?”

“You were.” She turns back to face his smiling face; dark curls splayed in all directions. “And then you started saying cheesy post-coital romantic shit like that.”

She’s already turned back by the time he stops laughing. A sobering thought crosses his mind and he wants to tell her.

“Notre-Dame was the first thing I ever set eyes on when I got to Paris.”

“That’s not possible. The train station is miles away.”

“No I mean truly open eyes. Not the groggy tourist eyes, but the ones filled with awe rather than 'Oh I've seen pictures of this in someone's travel album.'” He stands because he needs to look at Notre-Dame with her at his side. Cat’s never even heard his thoughts like this. “The eyes that open because what you’re looking at isn’t just something that you alone seeing are seeing in person. Billions of people before you have trod that path and you think you can contemplate the magnitude of it, but deep down you know that you will never understand how man built something like that and how it has survived for years in reality and through literature and art. But that’s okay. You’re at peace with not understanding. Instead you gaze and gaze and never get tired of gazing. And I –“

It’s quiet for a moment. She’s interrupted his monologue with something sweeter than gazing at an old cathedral.

She takes a breath, her hand still holding his cheek. “I think I like when you talk about things you truly love rather than the things you truly hate. Although your passion for Notre-Dame might be equal to your thoughts about loud tourists.”

“Tell me something.”

“I’ve told you too much.”

“Tell me about your favorite place.”

“That’s incredibly broad Petyr and there’s no way it could match the intensity of your love affair with Notre-Dame.”

“That’s not the point.”

She fingers the frayed curtains and looks away from him. His head rests on her shoulder.

“There’s a spot in California, on Mt. Whitney, that’s just before the 109 switchbacks. It’s the calm before the storm if you will. It’s the last place to get fresh water for your pack and it’s right before the extremely tough parts leading up to the summit. There’s a lake. I’ve only ever been to this lake when the temperature forces it to freeze over, but it’s the most beautiful experience to see it at sunrise. You trek through a ton of snow that reaches up to your thighs and ice spikes are essentially useless at this point -and god was I hurting and ready to turn back- but then the snow stops breaking completely underfoot, the dark black is fading to purple and then you turn and see the frozen water look like it’s melting into the orange of the sun and it’s just crazy that it’s all real and that, even though the hike is awful at points and the next part is even worse, you get a small window of peace and serenity. That moment is different for everyone, because no matter what, the view will never be the same. That’s the same for any great place. Manmade or earth-made or god-made however this universe came to-God I sound so dumb.”

“No you don’t.”

“It’s cold again.”

“It never stopped being cold.”

The bed is warm. Blue and white striped jersey sheets beneath a thick blue comforter. A sun shines that she hasn’t seen in the sky for the duration of her stay until today. The cloud cover is gone and the blue of the sheets matches the backdrop of Notre-Dame. The caramel wood framing the mattress stands out in stark opposition to the white minimalism surrounding her. An empty easel is set up in one corner next to a desk that creates another caramel contrast. A laptop, a pile of notebooks, and an even more precarious pile of books lay on the desk leaving no room to actually work at it. Four other haphazardly stacked sets of books dot the room and one more tower lies next to the bed. A chair, a closet with clothes hung neatly, shoes lined up on a rack, and nothing too personal presented.

The Tumbleweed Hotel is temporary for most.

She turns away from his arms to graze a finger along the spines of the book pile next to her before grabbing a French paperback to skim while he skims his nose along her shoulder. Back and forth.

“How long have you lived here now?”

He thinks for a moment. “A year and half.” Back and forth.

“What’s the normal time for artists in residence to stay?”

“Most stay for six months. Some stay for the allotted two years and move on. Others, like myself most likely, stay past the two years at the bookstore. We just have to find other housing.” Back and forth.

Even two years is temporary in the span of a hundred year life.

Two weeks even less so.

And one night…well if it’s memorable she supposes it can last a lifetime.

She places the paperback in between the two books she slid it away from. Furthering herself into the recesses of his bed and arms. “You write and paint?”

“Charcoal.” Up to her neck. He places a kiss below her ear. “That was very polite of you.”

She’s confused and turns. A raised brow. A chuckle from him.

“The book. Putting it back in the right spot. Rather than just placing it on top.”

“Is that an uncommon occurrence with…guests?”

There are two questions there truly, but he doesn’t address the (barely) overt one.

“It is. People mistake the piles as disorganized when truly they have their own system. Which gets messed up each time someone picks out a book and then without fail just places it on top.” A laugh escapes her lips. “Oh you think it’s funny.”

“Very, but that is a sound frustration. Much more reasonable than your complaints about the Paris outside your window.”

“I’m pouring my heart and soul out to you and you take it as a joke.”

A jingling and a pattering of paws outside the door. A soft whine.

“Dickens.”

“Dickens?”

He gets out of bed and moves to the door before pausing. “Do you have a problem with dogs?”

She shakes her head.

He opens the door and a medium mass of black fur with four legs comes bounding in to jump on the bed.

“Oh my!” She laughs again. “Aren’t you playful?”

Dickens settles in the warm spot left behind by Petyr and curls up into her side.

“Well that’s that then. I’ll just stay over here in the cold in my pants.”

“I’m afraid Dickens is my new favorite.”

“Well your new favorite is going to have to make room. Move it you mutt.”

“Mutt?”

Her laughter cuts off and Dickens is forced to make his way towards the foot of the bed. Her laughter has been ringing all morning, but he prefers another sound. The bells of Notre Dame ring ten times and Dickens whimpers and hops off of the bed, effectively breaking the twenty minutes of quiet almost-silence.

“No! You made him move.”

“You are killing me.”

“When do you work again?”

“Never. I quit. Just to stay in bed with you all day. I’ll attach my resignation to Dickens and send him down to the store.”

“You think you’re being cute, but you’re just being an asshole again.”

“Better than pretentious.”

“You think you hate being pretentious, but you’re lying to yourself.”

“Tell me what else you think since you seem to know my mind so well after one night’s full conversation.”

Her fingers trail from his lips to the fabric at his waist. His eyelids flutter briefly. “You think that feels good.”

“Cheating. You’re only half right. It feels better than good.”

“How are you going to call me a cheater if you just give me the answers after? How on earth will I ever learn?”

“ _Par la pratique_.”

“Now is not the time for French lessons. I can’t practice reading your mind.”

“You can practice _other_  things.”

“I don’t even think a scoff would be a proper answer to that.”

“Ever had a two night stand?”

“Well seeing as this was my first one night stand…”

“We should get some food first.”

“But Dickens is settled so nicely.”

She isn’t a liar. Dickens has nuzzled closer to them, his head resting on her ankles looking up at the two curled into each other.

“He’s going back to Cat’s room if that’s the case.”

“I thought you said she was gone? You can’t leave him alone!”

“You’ve just met him! How can you care so deeply for him already?”

She doesn’t answer, instead reaching away to scratch the mutt on the ears. “Where did Cat go?”

“Syria.” He doesn’t want to talk about Cat with her. Cat is the reason for this situation, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want her to know. He wants her to enjoy this briefly like he’s enjoying it and then be done with it like he’ll be done with it.

 

Him

Their morning after only existed because of the night before.

The moment when she asked him out for a drink he knew.

Well he didn’t, but he had an inkling that he would really like to see that hair against his sheets. Whether he would think of Cat was another story. God he hoped not.

But then he was telling her, “Just leave your stuff here.”

And the look in her eye meant she knew as well.

Even with the late comment of, “Just don’t want you to get dragged down by all of your bags on the Metro.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I’ll just put them away.”

“I’ll wait downstairs. I actually need to speak to Margaery.”

“Perfect.”

She retreats down the stairs while he taps in the security code and sticks his key into the wall door that separates the research room from the Tumbleweed hotel. He ducks into the hall then into the open doorway of his room and places her bags –more stamped books of course and a couple of items of clothing from a vintage shop he recognizes the logo of –on the chair at his desk. He takes a glance around and for once the room is organized. Errant clothing isn’t strewn about, his papers are all in neat order, and the window is letting in a frigidly fresh breeze. He closes it and catches a glimpse of his current canvas.

It’s black and white, but still obvious that half the face is downstairs and half in Syria.

He doesn’t need that reminder. Or evidence that perhaps his indifference to the American -he doesn’t know- isn’t precisely as indifferent as it seems. He picks the light frame up and tucks it safely into the back of his closet behind sweaters and shirts.

That had to be enough time for her to talk to Margaery. He hopes she’s canceling on her. He hopes he isn’t going to have to focus on wordless communication with Margaery about how she cannot come with them. He needs Sansa. But he needs her alone.

 

Her

Margaery’s smile is too catlike for Sansa to lose the twisting in her stomach.

“I absolutely understand Sansa. You hate me it’s fine.”

“No that’s not it at all Margaery!”

“I’m teasing. It’s truly fine. I should probably be working on some writing and Petyr deserves some of your attention as well. Ed and I can’t hog all of your time before you head off to England.”

“I don’t leave for another week and half so there’s _absolutely_ a time that we could explore and you can take me to all of your favorite tourist places you need a tourist to go to!” Margaery raises an eyebrow. “I swear! My last week I only have a final essay to write and then the rest of the week is mine to do what I please.”

“You won’t just ditch me to spend time with Petyr?”

“I don’t even know Petyr, Margaery! We’re just going out to have drinks!”

Margaery smiles knowingly again and writes down an address on a piece of receipt paper. “Take him to this address. It’s off of Chatelet…I think that’ll be the closest stop. It’s a jazz club. He loves jazz and it’s a really fantastic American jazz singer there tonight. She speaks French and English so you won’t be entirely lost. Tell the doorman you know Margaery.”

“Margaery we’re only getting drinks…”

“Sansa there is obviously a bar there. Did you even have a place in mind before?”

She didn’t, but a jazz club in Paris with a guy she met at a bookstore is too close to every romantic story out there and it’s going to be ruined when this doesn’t go well. Because realistically there is no way this will go well. Even if he’s truly well-intentioned with keeping her bags here. Or even if he’s not.

She should run now and retreat to her student apartment and drink cheap wine with the other American students.

She should go to her temporary home and FaceTime her family and laugh along when they ask how she’s feeling and what’s been the best part and why she isn’t out living it up in Paris 24/7.

She could be dramatic and do all of that instead of going out for drinks with a stranger she doesn’t know, who could very well end up just like Armand instead of the image that she’s built him up to be in her mind.

Petyr. A first name is all she has. The snippets that Margaery has dropped within their conversations at the bookshop.

Quiet. Knowledgeable. Artistic. 

Lonely.

There’s creaking on the stairs and Margaery is still smiling too brightly and it hits her that if she runs away right now it will be the biggest regret of her life.

 

Him

“So what’s the closest Metro stop to take to Chatelet? St. Michel right?”

“Yes, but you’re actually going to get lost if you go to Chatelet so go to Hotel de Ville. It’s smaller and easier to find your way out. You guys will have to walk a bit, but I’m sure you can find your way before you freeze.”

He’s down the stairs and both of the women turn to him as he rounds the corner, leading him down a straight shot through the store towards the register.

“Margaery where are you trying to lead us? Another rooftop bar?”

“No Petyr. I’m just helping Sansa out with a recommendation that you’ll both enjoy.”

The idea crosses his mind that perhaps it wasn’t truly his idea to go up to the reading rooms and maybe Margaery has been planning this all along. Margaery’s eyes are too bright and they’re wordlessly communicating a smug message he wants no part of. But at least she’s not coming with them.

“Is this a place I’ve been before?”

“I don’t think so. Duc de Lombards?”

The name is familiar, but he’s never set foot there. He shrugs and turns to Sansa. “Shall we take her recommendation or just act like we’re going to?”

Sansa laughs, “Unless you have another idea I say we take her advice.”

 

Her

“So what brings an American to Paris? If you say Gene Kelly I will turn around right now. Be wary.”

“And what’s wrong with Gene Kelly?”

He takes a half step turn away from her and she smiles.

“It’s not Kelly per say, or even Woody Allen if you were thinking that might be my reasoning too.”

She glances over at him to confirm that yes he was thinking of _Midnight in Paris_.

Who is he to judge? She saves her argument about the harsh judgment of why people visit places and continues on with her main reasoning.

“Moreso the professor who was leading it is one of my favorites and she convinced me to go. I had ‘loved’ France as a kid, the way a girl with an Eiffel tower decal on her bedroom wall loves France, it faded away and then when I went to college it returned with fervor because of a Modernist class about the Lost Generation. Then I came here to study the American writers who came to Paris.”

“So you’re in _Paris_ to study _American_ writers?”

“Yes quite a strange phenomenon I know,” she laughs again. “Ready to walk away from me yet?”

“Not just yet. You didn’t say you wanted to dance along the seine. Or jump into it at least.”

“Well I was thinking we could do that afterwards. Winter and all. Perfect time.”

The street glistens and so do his teeth when he grins at her snark.

 

Him

Duc de Lombards is on the corner of a street decked with a sports bar and an Irish pub and the street crawls with locals and tourists alike.

He wonders what Margaery is getting them into.

The cold brisk air envelops them as they stand in line and he continues to ask her questions. Her teeth chatter, but her smile never leaves her.

She was quiet on the Metro ride, which he respected, but now she’s quiet and anxious.

He notices the shuffle of her feet. The Bard flashing in the lamplit street.

“What’s your favorite work of Shakespeare’s?”

“ _The Merchant of Venice_. I take it yours would be one of the lesser known ones? _Timon of Athens_ or _King John_?”

“No actually my favorite is also _Merchant_ , but _Much Ado_ is my favorite comedy.”

“Really? I would have taken you for having one of the Histories as your favorite.”

He shrugs. “I definitely love the histories more than say _Romeo and Juliet_ , but _Merchant_ and _Much Ado_ just…they have good villains who aren’t really villains.”

“I’m going to have to argue with you here.”

“Oh you’re going to _have to_?”

Her eyes crinkle with her ecstatic grin and she seems at ease again. This is the girl he’s seen so little of tonight. With her nervousness at bay for the moment.

“Yes I _have_ to. How is Don John not a villain?”

“Well I was actually thinking Don Pedro. He’s quite villainous in his own way, but nobody ever reads him as a villain.”

A pause as she ponders this. The rain picks up again. The queue they’re in starts to move as people usher inside for the 8 o’clock show. An out of tune guitar chord rings from the Irish pub across the street.

“That’s not how the comedies work though.”

“Genres have to have a formula?” He just wants to rile her up. To get the blood boiling. To get her thinking and speaking her mind. She’s been on tenterhooks with him. Acting as though she enjoys small talk. He doesn’t like it. It doesn’t fit his expectations of her.

“Yes. Well no, but yes! They all have their formulas. But no I don't like that word...Formula isn't right that's too mathematical.”

They’re inside the vestibule and he’s given Margaery’s name and with a smile the hostess tears their two prepaid tickets. He pauses. Sansa’s eyebrows meet for a moment.  

“Were you and Margaery supposed to come here tonight?”

“No we were going to drink wine and freeze at the top of the Eiffel tower.”

He sends a silent curse _and_ a thank you to wherever Margaery is.

 

Her

If her phone worked she would excuse herself to the toilet and call Margaery immediately to yell at her.

And then thank her.

It doesn’t have international service though so she’ll save one of the reactions for tomorrow. Depending on where she sleeps tonight.

“I believe she tricked us both.”

“Oh that’s in her nature.”

A low buzz of conversation surrounds them in the dim space. A waiter leads them to a booth tucked underneath the balcony. They’re on the left of the open seating area, which is jam-packed with people already.

Their corner is a bit quieter. The stage lies in front of them with lights showing off the baby grand piano, a small drum kit, and two brass instruments still tucked away in their boxes.

Across the room, directly opposite of them, is the bar tinged in purple lighting. Two bartenders already prepare drinks. She watches for a moment as they aerate a trickle of red into a wine glass. She can’t hear the sound, but she can imagine it.

Her coat is stifling. The yellow darkened by blotches of rain. She pulls out her phone then takes it off and feels a bit cooler, but the room is still small and much warmer than outside.

“Here.” Petyr has already taken his off as well and gestures for hers. “No Parisian pickpockets will take anything here.”

“You tease, but I’m the perfect target.” She snaps a photo of the bar and stage.

“You really are. You just willingly handed it over to me. I could be working with the kitchen staff to sell your passport and ID.”

“What kind of man did Margaery send me off with?”

“I’ve got a few answers for that question, but I don’t think you’re ready to hear them yet.” A shiver runs down her spine at just how low that accent can get. “I do spy our waiter making his way back to us. What would you like to drink? I’ll order so you don’t have to worry.”

“Ah such a gentleman. Whatever red house wine they have is fine.” The only choice she’s allowed herself to keep from looking too much like a fool. 

His chuckle is just as low as his voice has gotten and she wonders if it's just her. “You really are checking all of the study abroad boxes aren’t you?”

“Paris can do no wrong with wine. I _have_ learned that. If you’re still being so judgmental what’s your drink of choice?"

Their waiter greets them. Petyr takes the lead once again with her utter ignorance of the French language.

“ _Deux vins maison s'il vous plait_.”

 

Him

She’s not drunk. Well she might be. He can’t tell.

He might be. Whether that’s the wine or something else.

Someone else.

 _She’s_ definitely tipsy.

“Did you eat before we came here?”

“No I didn’t. But you’ve been so kind tonight and I’ve just been so nervous and the wine definitely helped with that. They don’t lie about French wine.”

He laughs. She’s repeating herself and yet he doesn’t mind.

“No they don’t. Let’s go get some food.”

“Crepes. We should get crepes. I’ve been here for three weeks and I haven’t had a crepe. Can you believe that? That was the first thing my sister told me to get and I haven’t even gotten one.”

“I actually can’t. I would think that would be the first thing your teachers would have you get. You have a sister?”

The moment the question leaves his lips he realizes how gross it accidently sounds and she does too because she bursts into laughter as he tells her to ignore that last part.

Authentic foreign eateries and bars on both sides of the street. The streets are still busy with people on this late night. She’s leaning on him at this point. The cabernet on her tongue. It wasn’t bad for cheap wine.

No wonder they’d shared a bottle and half. It had been a great singer. Good jazz. Not the watered down stuff he’d seen recently. He’d need to thank Margaery for recommending the place. Setting up the date underhandedly.

“There should be a crepe stand around here.” He stumbles a bit on cobblestone that he’s so adept at walking on. “Damn it.”

A giggle escapes her lips as she tightens her grip on him. Helping him straighten up and subsequently getting closer. “Are you okay?”

“ _Je vais bien_.” Slips out of his mouth. He corrects himself to ease her confusion. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Jehvahbeahn.”

“Saying it faster won’t help you.” A smile and a chuckle.

 “What will help me then?”

“A good teacher. A lot of practice.”

“Would you be my teacher?”

Oh, she _is_ drunk. How did she get her voice that low?

He adjusts his arm so it’s around her instead of her clutching onto it. Her own arm adjusts to wrap around his waist. Hugging him even closer. He feels like he’s stepped off the curb without knowing, but it’s just a feeling.

“I don’t know how much I could teach you in…How many days do you have left here?”

“A week and a half. So…Nine. I have nine days left.”

Nine.

“Well we should get working on your phrases then.”

 

Her

It’s warm again. She’s very, very warm.

But not because the jazz club is stifling. She enjoyed the jazz, a genre she isn’t entirely familiar with.

They’re not in the club anymore, a cold bench is beneath, but oh she is very, very warm.

Tucked snugly under his arm. The feeling of him humming the music they just heard reverberating through her. His fingers playing imaginary keys on her hip.  

How she’s allowed him to pass any of her boundaries is beyond her in this moment.

She’s completely at peace and not a single anxious thought enters her head.

(Besides whether she’s drunk too much on a first, and possibly only, date)

Even that one disappears as he pauses his humming and continues to attempt to teach her French phrases.

 

Him

The bench they’re on is wet, but he doesn’t mind. She doesn’t either it seems.

They’re both laughing quietly into the night learning those small things about each other.

Family. Hers is big. His is small.

Home. Hers is California. His is Dublin.

Interests, beyond their shared love of literature. Hers include hiking, Elizabethan theatre, and political science. His include art, French history, and piano.

He can’t bake and neither can she unless, she admits, “It comes as a pre-packaged mix in a Pillsbury box.”

They both ponder favorite author and then neglect to answer. It's too hard of a question. 

It’s deep into their conversation that he realizes he’s eating a crepe at 11pm like he’s still a university student. It’s easy to imagine he’s younger and less nihilistic when he’s got a ray of sunshine giving him a toothache with how damn sweet she is.

Tucked into his chest. Warming a heart that’s only been there to pump blood. Until tonight.

With that thought he rolls his eyes. It’s not love it’s lust.

Love is a long dead concept for him.

“How do you say lost?”

His brow furrows. “ _Perdant_.”

“How about beat?”

He understands now. “ _Battement_.”

“ _Êtes-vous un perdant a un battement_?”

“ _Ou_.”

“ _Pardon_?”

She’s got that one at least. He wants to kiss her already, but she’s just sobering up now. He can feel her shivering. He wraps his free arm around her.

Time is ticking before they must make the late night trek to the Metro and then back to the Tumbleweed Hotel. Where he hopes they’ll continue her lessons with a little less talking.

“It would be _ou_ not _a_. The grammar would have to change a bit.  _Êtes-vous perdu ou un battement_?”

“ _Êtes-vous perdu ou un battement_?” She repeats almost perfectly. She still struggles. Speaking too fast with some fake accent.

And what is he? A Lost or a Beat? When it comes down to it. When it comes down to being with her in this moment.

“ _Je suis perdu_.”

He’s said it.

He tilts her head up to his and he shows it.

 

Them

“Let’s go get a coffee.”

It’s the command rather than a question that’s intriguing to him. There’s no trace of the shy girl that attempted to converse with him on the first day they met. This isn’t even the girl who spoke up timidly, but self-assuredly at the Freeman Panel.

The girl who may or may not have gone home with Armand.

No, that can’t be. She just said this was her first one-night stand.

This is someone else entirely. Who he only caught glimpses of last night.

“I’m not making it.”

“I didn’t say that. I said let’s _go get_ coffee. I hear the place next door has a better coffee than Shakespeare and Company.”

He wants to kiss the grin off of her face. He holds back. “I know for a fact that the pretentious baristas would beg to differ, but not out loud.”

Laughter rings while she rises to get dressed. He watches this American with no concept of Parisian winter shiver as she puts her two layers back on.

“There are some extra sweaters you can borrow in the closet. And a scarf as well.”

“Are you saying I won’t last in the cold?”

“What’s your weather app say?”

“Verizon still says I have no service over here unless I’m connected to Wi-Fi so that means, ‘Listen to your body’s instinct.’”

“And what does it tell you?”

“To suck up my pride and take you up on your clothing offering.”

“Seems like the smartest idea to me.” A sigh escapes his lips and he makes a half-assed attempt at making the bed by tossing the covers over his pillows at the head of the bed. There’s a dip in the one her head was resting on and he’s sure if he looks closely enough a few red strands will have taken up residence. Dickens curls further into his warm nook of extra blankets.

She’s putting on his emerald sweater when it hits him.

_Je suis perdu._

But he brushes it aside and grabs his trousers from the desk chair. Then he’s intent on shooing the furball off of his bed.

“Come on Dickens let’s go to Cat’s.”

“Can’t you just leave him in here?”

“He’ll mark his territory in more ways than one if I leave him in here.”

“Then why don’t we take him with us?”

“Because Dickens can’t go on the Metro.”

She’s leaning down petting his ears and he knows it’s a lost cause. “Who says we have to take the Metro…”

“I do. The romanticism of walking around the entirety of Paris is lost when it’s -10. I’ll make sure someone checks on him. Come on Dickens. Quit tricking her into thinking you’re innocent of any chewing intent.”

He’s scooped Dickens into his arms and they’re walking in the hall towards the end, the farthest from the entrance to the bookstore. He pushes the door open and plops Dickens into the dog bed by Cat’s bookcase.

“There you go.”

He turns to meet a disapproving frown. “He’s fine. You didn’t even know he existed until twenty minutes ago.”

 

* * *

 

Him

He’s sipping espresso and she’s slightly overreacting to burning her tongue on a latte when it hits him again.

 _Je suis perdu_.

But he still brushes it aside and looks down at his darkened fingers. The charcoal’s rubbed off from his sketch, more than he’d like, but the blurred effect isn’t awful.

She never stops moving, he supposes, so it’s a fitting depiction. With a finger flick he’s onto the next blank page.

She insisted on buying a copy of _Finnegan’s Wake_ simply for the stamp and the history and he rolled his eyes while telling her he had a copy she could borrow for the day, but it fell on deaf ears.

“No I’m being as touristy as possible for my last few days. I tried to blend in and it didn’t work anyway so I might as well go all out now that I have a local to ensure I don’t get robbed.”

“I’m just your insurance?”

“Obviously. And you have a dog. So that’s a plus.”

“Not even my flat whites?”

“Fine you’ve got four things going for you.”

“My pretentious knowledge of all things literature and Paris, my dog, my flat white abilities and what?”

“I can’t decide between your sweater or your good looks.” The emerald sleeve is between her finger and thumb. “I think I’ll go with the sweater.”

His grin has to equal hers, but he doesn’t even try to contain it as he sips his espresso again. At a loss for words with her.

“Ah no witty comeback? Have I stumped you for once?”

“Well I wouldn’t say that. Insulted maybe…But that is a rather nice sweater. In fact I think it’s warmed up a bit you don’t need it right?”

Her tongue is out, directed at him in a childish manner and it continues to hit him. Yet, she interjects before he can make a sentimental fool of himself.

“Will you go to a museum with me?”

“Yes, but I refuse to go to the Louvre on principle.”

“I was thinking the Musée d'Orsay, but what have you got against the Louvre?”

“It’s just too vast. Everyone disregards the rest of the museum to go join a crowd around a tiny glimpse of a tiny portrait of a smirking woman.”

“I cannot think of a more pretentious thing you’ve said in the week I’ve known you.” But he knows she agrees.

“You overuse that word. It’s also not a synonym for wrong.”

"I would have thought you'd love that portrait of a smirking woman. Smirks seem to be permanently glued on your face."

His phone buzzes repeatedly and his current smirk drops. One text immediately after the other comes in and buzzes in his pocket. Sansa returns to her Joyce as he pulls it out to glance at it.

_Are you with Sansa right now?_

_Did you shag her last night?_

_Are you getting SOME?_

_Proud of you. Send me pics because I know you took some of her while she was sleeping._

_You hopeless creepy romantic you._

_Underneath all of that tough, bitter, mopey exterior you’re the kind of guy who will take photos of a girl while she’s sleeping after being thoroughly shagged._

_No, but really if you’re with her and not moping across the street at Notre-Dame ask her for her dress size._

_I think she’s a 38, but her height throws me off._

_Also American conversions._

_ASK HER_

_And then send me those pictures. You creep. I want to be a creep too._

If he didn’t know how attached she could get to people she really enjoyed, he’d ask if she was drunk at 11 in the morning and dismiss her connection to Sansa.

But he can’t dismiss her connection to Sansa because he knows she knows things he doesn’t, and has spent more time talking to Sansa instead of… thoroughly shagging her.

He disregards the texts.

“Who is blowing up your phone?” she asked when the barrage first started.

“Margaery.”

“Ah I see. I almost feel bad for canceling on her last night.”

“Judging by her texts she understands.”

There’s a blush, then a smile.

This was just another one of Margaery’s plans. He’s not even annoyed by that anymore.

“Well,” he stands up and drains the last bit of his espresso shot. “Are we going to the museum or no?”

* * *

Him

They don’t take the Metro. It’s too close of a walk. Besides it’s not nearly as cold as it has been lately.

So they walk along winding streets and he obliges her as she takes countless photos of every seemingly infinitesimal thing.

First it was a window display of a vast array of eyeglasses.

Then the light display alerting everyone that it’s a store that sells eyeglasses.

A cat crossed their path and she knelt down to take a photo of it as it walked away.

Then ivy on an awning of a café catches her eye. The cobblestones are even noteworthy to her.

A couple smoking cigarettes smile knowingly at him and he smirks because they truly don’t know that -at this point- he isn’t even placating her.

“We’ll never get to the museum at this point Sansa.”

She laughs. Oh that laugh. He’s lost at this point. Any pretense he had regarding this supposed one-night stand is lost.

“Sorry. Everything’s just so beautiful in the sun. I mean everything was beautiful before, but I’m seeing the city in a whole new light.”

“Oh that’s not the sun.” He takes her hand pulling her closer on the narrow sidewalk. “That’s just the…how did you put it? Ah yes those _post-coital_ endorphins.”

“Laughter produces endorphins too. You should try it.”

Her hand is still clasped with his. He brings them up to kiss hers.

 

Her

She’s been to the Louvre twice already, but she already knows she’ll enjoy the Musée d'Orsay more.

Perhaps because it’s smaller and more manageable. Perhaps because of the local by her side.

Smirking every time she looks at him.

It’s not far from the coffee shop they stopped in after grabbing croissants from the second boulangerie they passed by.

“That first one is over-priced. Never go there.”

The wind whips at the ends of her hair, but her beanie keeps her ears from freezing and the sun still shines bright. Its endless blue backdrop only dotted with a few white fluffy clouds. He doesn’t give her too much trouble as she takes photos of every single thing she sees. She isn’t lying when she says she thinks everything is beautiful. It truly is. The sun hasn’t glinted off windows for a majority of her stay and she wants to take a photo of the greenery attempting to make its way back in a modernized city.

As soon as his hand touches hers she finds that her phone would do better to reside in her pocket for the moment as they finish their walk to the museum.

The moment he’s secured their student tickets, with French she hopes she’ll understand someday, they finally escape the chill and pass through security with relative ease.

The weight of the Louvre’s history isn’t upon her for one thing. Crushing every fiber of her being with so much space and so many pieces of art. It’s smaller here. Just as grand, but on a more comfortable scale.

If one can call an ornate century old building comfortable and small that is. The first thing that greets her is the replica of the Statue of Liberty and a pang for home hits her. But Petyr’s hand is in hers again and while it’s not eradicated, it’s softened.

For the second time she doesn’t feel so alone in this foreign city.

“So do you want to get Van Gogh and Degas over with?”

Of course he can pronounce Gogh with ease.

“You can’t just get Van Gogh over with!”

“Oh but Degas…?”

“No neither!”

He chuckles at the indignation he’s caused. “Would you like to go on my personal tour? You don’t have to wear headphones and carry a remote.”

“It depends. Will your tour involve walking to the other side of the first floor and leaving through the emergency exit?”

“Just because I don’t like tourist traps, doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about art appreciation.”

 

Him

There are very few museums that don’t get ruined for him by the people around him. 

They take photos of everything and soak in nothing. Yet when Sansa takes photos of her favorite pieces (and attempts to sneak photos of him) he doesn’t mind.

They spend ages in front of Van Gogh’s self-portrait and don’t pay mind to anything else in the gallery. Yet Sansa spends more time going back and forth between the two self-portraits pointing at the vastly different brush strokes and colorings just months apart.He smiles when the gallery guards eye her warily.

He takes her to see his favorite sketches. She leads him through the sculpture garden when he wants to pass straight through to go to the second floor. Then once he’s found a new appreciation for some of them he leads her to names she’s never heard of next to hidden gems she never would have found. Or she would have.

The golden clock strikes 3 o’clock and they’ve covered most of the museum.

The rain has started to pour outside so they wait it out together. They've got time.

Hands intertwined. Walking through art history. Watching people pass them by.

* * *

 

Him

His phone is vibrating again. Incessantly.

Margaery’s face pops up and he decides to step outside while Sansa is testing her newly memorized French interaction with the man at the gyro shop.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he answers tersely.

There’s no response for a moment and then she forgoes her French for English, “It’s windy. Are you seriously at the top of Notre-Dame right now? Where’s Sansa?”

“If you’re so concerned over her why don’t you call her?”

“I have and it’s gone straight to voicemail which means she’s out in the city with no reception or she’s ignoring my phone calls. Either way it leads back to you.”

“If this is about her dress size, you can ask her yourself.”

“Pft. Petyr lui donne la téléphone.”

He laughs at her usual bilingual switching when especially frustrated with him.

“I can’t do that Margaery. You can talk to her when you see her again.”

“Connard.” She mutters.

“Oh well now that’s not very kind.”

The smell of spices and pita grows stronger than the normal waft of the restaurant. Sansa emerges from the doorway smiling victoriously with two gyros stuffed with meat and fries in her hands.

“I did it!”

“Petyr!” Margaery yells in his ear.

“ _Au revoir_ Margaery.” Sansa’s smile is as bright as the sun that disappeared while they spent hours in the museum. “Wait a second. Hold that pose.”

Her smile drops to confusion as he snaps a photo and laughs again. “Why are you laughing?”

“I meant the smile too.”  _That's the best part_. 

“Petyr are you taking photos of food? Whatever will the Beats thing of you?”

There’s the laugh he craves so much. And _there’s_ the photo he wants.

“Now I’ll take one of those off of your hands.”

“Where to now?”

“That’s up to you.”

 

Her

She honestly wants to take a nap, but knows she’ll regret that. There’s only so much time she has left here and any amount of unnecessary sleep would be a waste of time.

“Let’s go to your favorite place.”

They swipe their Metro cards this time since they’ve wandered far and away from the museum.

Rush hour means a mass of people waiting underground.

Musicians play songs for coins.

Refugees hold signs with the Syrian flag that she cannot read asking for the same thing.

They reach the platform and a woosh of hot air combats the cold air and emptiness that’s chilled her at the sight of people in need who she knows no way to help. She leads Petyr into a cramped car away from what she cannot control.

They’re spread apart for a moment when everyone rushes in. Murmured _pardons_ on all sides of her. Children coming home from school with their puffy jackets and backpacks. Woman and men in suits, headphones blocking out the daily commute.

Everyone around her reading. A sight that warms her heart again.

Paris is a city of literature. 

She grabs at the pole in the middle and feels his hand over hers. Their eyes lock and his hold a question.

She’s sure hers do too. But it’s not the same one.

 

* * *

 

Them

They miss the stop for Notre Dame.

They spend an hour hopping on and off the Metro lines.

They barely speak a word to each other.

Share an observation or two. Or another memory they deem important.

Content to sit quietly. 

To stand and sway to the movement of the tracks.

To look out the windows at the places that pass by when they’re aboveground.

To look at the people within when they’re belowground.

To share kisses that they can never take back. 

* * *

 

Him

He follows her every whim even though he knows they’ll both smell like urine after spending so much time sitting on Line 13. Something has affected her deeply and he doesn’t know what. He’s afraid to ask.

Has she realized that this can't last?

Nine. 

He's so attached and it's only been one. 

They finally leave and exit up the stairs at Montgallet.

“Sorry I need to do something really fast. You can come up if you like. I just have to get something.”

They’re outside a set of apartments to the immediate left of the exit.

“Is this where you’re staying?”

She nods. He takes in the frozen grass in the front area. The double security door and then they’re in a tiny elevator heading up to the 6th floor.

“The first apartment I was at when I first got here,” she laughs. “It didn’t have an elevator and I’m pretty sure it was constructed pre-Revolutionary War of Napoleon's time. Which is fascinating and wonderful, but not when you've got too much luggage. So I have my giant suitcase and duffel bag coming up this tiny spiral staircase and it was honestly my worst nightmare after a nine hour plane ride. I’ve just been handed a booklet on how to open doors and my keys and I was thinking, ‘Why do I need a booklet on how to open the door?’ Then I realized after climbing four flights of stairs and clunking my suitcase along the way.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Parisian doors are a fucking nightmare.”

“Is that a summary of your trip?”

“Wait, wait, wait is your door not a nightmare?”

“I mean, I know how to open it if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No. I mean that Parisian doors have it out to get me.”

The elevator door dings open and they step out into the hall. He follows her to her door and watches her insert her key.

“I’m sure they do. Do you want to try opening this one? Or should I?”

The look she gives him widens his grin. She opens her door with a struggle.

But she opens it nonetheless.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

A chorus of girls’ voices answer her.

He follows behind her to find an IKEA student haven. Complete with commercial London prints, a kitchen table in the living room, and two futons of all things.

She moves a backpack and books off of one of the futons and gestures towards it. He sits down and takes in the small space she’s been calling her home.

Books are scattered, phone chargers and converters are plugged into the available plugins, a laptop sits open on the table with a blog open. He spies Polaroids on the square bookcase where purses and shoes are strewn, but can't see the subjects of the photos. 

“Sansa where have you been? We were about to call Doctor Tar-”

A blonde girl walks in form the hallway. A towel wrapped around her body and one on her head.

“Okay so you could have said you weren’t alone, but that’s fine. I’m Myrcella. Pardon me.”

“Sorry Myrcella!” Sansa calls to the retreating form. A door slams. He smirks when she turns to him. “It’ll just be a second I swear. You can wipe that look off of your face you perv.”

“Wait who’d you bring over?” Another voice calls from an open door down the hall. Sansa rushes to meet the person before they come out. “Is it Harry and Tommen? I told them they’re not allowed over here after last week’s spaghetti incident.”

He hears Myrcella’s muffled yell before Sansa can reply. “No it’s some random guy!”  

A third voice enters the mix. “I mean honestly I thought it would be Jeyne breaking the rules. But props to you Sansa. Puh-lease tell me it’s bookshop boy.”

Sansa whispers then a door closes that conversation off.

Bookshop boy.

 

Her

She will kill Sarella if it’s the last thing she does in Paris.

There are no stars that she can see in this City of Lights, but the winter sky is turning dark blue and it’s only six.

A bag of blankets, clothes, and food is in her hand. The girls had bundled what they weren’t taking back with them to be donated anyway so Sansa took it upon herself to personally donate it rather than rely on their school to say they did so. She sorted through and added some more.

Petyr looked at her strangely when she emerged from the kitchen with food added to the top,  but she just shook her head.

He understands now that they’re back at that same Metro stop from over an hour ago. And she stops and asks him.

“Can you do me a favor? And ask if this would help? Or if there’s anything else I can do to help?”

She can tell that he thinks this is stupid.

That they only want money.

That they’re not really refugees.

That she’s just an idealistic, stupid girl who can’t speak French.

But something changes in his eyes after a second.

Within the crowd of people still coming home from work or school or wherever it is people in the city need to come from or go to he kisses her on the head and takes the bag.

She watches him approach the woman and her children. They converse for a moment.

Other strangers glance back at the exchange.

Then continue on their way.

Petyr returns to her. The woman doesn’t smile, but she waves.

“She says _merci_.”

“Does she really or are you just placating me?”

A kiss to her cheek. A hand in hers. “She really did.”

* * *

Her

They’re back at the bookstore. The café is an hour from closing yet they’re there anyway.

Drinking free tea, as she’s had far too much coffee in one day and she has an inside connection. The windows are fogged up from the body heat inside and she plays with the latch on the window. Looking over at Petyr every so often while they wait.

He sips his own mint tea and reads from her new copy of _Finnegan’s Wake_.

Margaery had sent her a plethora of texts that she received while making her bundle, but she ignored them. She had to go back to the bookstore at some point. Here she is.

To get her books and clothes.

To return his sweater.

And where does she go from here? What happens after dinner with Margaery, Eddard, and the other invitees of whatever Margaery cryptically sent in texts to Sansa.

What is it that’s happened in the past twenty four hours?

 

Him 

It's only been a day.  

Eight. She's leaving in eight days. 

"Oh good to see you two are alive." 

He turns to see Margaery enter the cafe. Eddard is still scrubbing down the back while he and Sansa stack the chairs on the table. 

"Duc de Lombards was fantastic Margaery." 

"Oh was it? You could have told me that 12 hours ago." 

"I was out in the city all day. I didn't get your text messages." 

"You had access to a phone. The strawberry blonde's glare turned to him. 

"Margaery you know mine doesn't work. I just got to the bookstore when you said to meetup for dinner and then Petyr and I met up and were talking with Ed." 

He turns to cover his smirk with the pretense of piling up the old newspapers strewn on the tables. 

"Wait so we're acting like you two didn't fuck last night?" Eddard chimes in from inside the pastry case, his breath fogging up the case. "Because I thought it was obvious since Margaery came in this morning doing victory dance and I haven't seen Petyr smile this much since Cat left." 

 _Cat_. 

He tenses. 

Margaery pounces on the dead air, but he knows that Sansa knows there's more to Cat than he's let on. 

But why does that matter? It shouldn't. 

"I fucking knew you two shagged!" 

With one last swipe at the stainless steel, Eddard extracts himself from the inside the case, leaning on the counter. "You would have known if you were here. Our walls aren't that thick." 

Sansa's hand is on her face as she shakes it. An embarrassed grin. 

"Don't tell me you were at Armand's Paris flat he boasts so highly of." Petyr chimes in. 

"Armand?" Sansa gapes. "As in that skeevy totalitarian author?" 

" _Baise toi Petyr_. It was not Armand." 

"Then who was it?" 

"No one important Petyr." 

There's a glance between Margaery and Sansa which causes a smirk on the latter. 

"Are we going to go to dinner or not?"

"Margaery, Tommen's not allowed to have people outside the program stay at his apartment. He knows that."

Petyr realizes that petty revenge is easily one of the most attractive looks on Sansa. 

"Sansa how dare you betray me like this. I have been _nothing_ , but kind to you." 

"Who's Tommen?" 

"Eddard, Tommen is an undergraduate." 

"Oh like you're one to talk Petyr." 

"You're right I'm no bookshop boy anymore." 

He catches Sansa's exasperated glance his way and bites his lip. Eyebrows raised in an attempt to suppress the quirk of his lips and remain innocent.

It hurts how well she fits in with them.

"God will you two save it until we finish eating?"

 

 

Them

The clouds have gone for a moment and the moonlight shines brightly in his room. A pale patch on the floor that illuminates the room just enough. He doesn't even turn on the lights he's too distracted.

Besides he's know the path to his bed blind-folded. Perhaps he can teach Sansa the way too.  

It's freezing, with his neglected open window, but they're shedding clothing anyway. Her purse and _Finnegan's Wake_  are tossed onto his desk.  

"I have class in the morning." 

Her yellow coat's on the floor. He pushes her beanie off immediately. Hands lost within the red strands. 

"Ditch it. I'll teach you everything you need to know about American writers in Paris" 

His jacket joins hers. Followed closely by his sweater. Leaving his Oxford underneath. 

"I can't. I'll fail my class." 

While he's occupied with her hair, she slips off her shoes. Tossing them in the direction of their scattered clothing. 

"I really like this sweater on you, but I'm afraid it has to go." 

His hands are cold, reaching beneath her layers. 

One, two, three. 

With a raise of her arms they're all gone and she's shivering in wool tights and her skirt. Which he pulls down unceremoniously retreating back up for kisses on the skin he's uncovered.

"Petyr I can't miss my class tomorrow." 

Her fingers say otherwise while they unbutton his shirt. 

His mouth is on hers and finally she's learned the pathway to his bed. 

"Fuck, it's cold in here." She's gone in a second to cross and close the window. A pause gives him a view parallel to his morning view so many hours ago. 

Then she's back.  

One, two, three. 

His shoes, pants, and -with a desperate yank on her part- shirt are off. Disappearing onto his floor. An area that doesn't matter anymore while the bed is in severe need of heating.

It's eight days. Or is it seven now? It doesn't matter while his lips are on hers. His hands in her hair.  

"Petyr-"

There's barely a sound. The shuffling of sheets. No complaints. A sigh. 

"You'll get to class. I'll endure the morning rush hour with you." 

The moonlight is covered again, but the bed is warm. 

"What about the bookshop?" 

"I already told you. Resignation. Dickens. Bed. All day until you're done with class." 

"Who will make those great flat whites?" 

"I'll get you one from next door. Now how about that two night stand?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, it's gonna be three folks.  
> Honestly I should end it right here.  
> And then toss a third chapter if it ever happens.  
> Instead of promising something that may never happen.  
> This just doesn't feel finished though.  
> I may save it for the day after episode 7 airs and we all need a bit of something to cheer us up.


	3. Eux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is never any ending to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. Paris was always worth it, and you received return for whatever you brought to it…” Ernest Hemingway, "A Moveable Feast"

Tumbleweed Hotel. Last Door on the Left.

Winter. 2017.

 

Her

 

There’s chirping. Otherwise it’s silent.

 

The sun isn’t up yet. No patrons outside the store. No locals starting their morning sidewalk commute.

 

No cars or motorbikes or buses on the street.

 

She sees her breath when she silences her alarm on his nightstand.

 

There’s something about someone’s face while they’re sleeping. It’s the most peaceful sight she’s seen in her 22 years of living. No doubt she’s read the same sentence in every book:

 

“They looked much more peaceful sleeping. As if whatever battle they were fighting while they were awake was nonexistent in sleep.”

 

She agrees. There’s no other way around it.

 

Petyr isn’t smirking. He isn’t frowning. Or glaring. Or grimacing and grumbling pretentious sentiments.

 

He’s just sleeping. Face turned towards her. A breath in. A breath out.

 

The urge to reach out and curl her fingers through his hair is strong, but she resists. With only two nights as evidence, where hardly any sleep occurred, she can’t tell if he’s a light sleeper and she needs to go.

 

The bed creaks, but barely dips as she shifts her weight off of it. Collecting her clothes. Her tights are a tangled mess. How in the world did he manage to knot them up in such a short time?

 

A frosty chill is in the air. Her breath still clouding up in front of her. His soft breathing remains steady while she walks around quietly getting ready.

 

Neither of them got up to turn on the radiator at any point in the night. Cocooned in blue sheets and moonlight and each other. Now it’s freezing.

 

She’ll miss him. There’s no doubt about that.

 

But what of it? What does she say? Exchange emails and letters? Perfectly timed phone calls across the ocean?

 

And from what? What is it they have besides sex and literature?

 

His sweater is still a part of her three layers, the green pairing so nicely with her white collared shirt.

 

With a look in the closet she pulls the sweater over her head again. He’s got plenty of others. He won’t be missing this one.

 

A rip of paper is the only sound in the room as she quietly leans over his desk. Awash with a mess of books; the stacks that came tumbling down. She scrawls a note and a phone number.

 

There. The choice is in his hands.

 

She chances a glance back at him after donning her coat.

 

Still fast asleep. Back facing her with his hand curled around the edge of the pillow her head vacated minutes ago.

 

But a note and number is all she leaves him with. Grabbing her purse and shopping bags she steps out onto the landing and closes the door behind her.

 

Him

 

The sun is streaming in. Not hitting the bed yet, but the desk is awash in the natural light.

 

There are engines outside. The city awake before him. 

 

The pigeons that congregate outside of the cathedral. The people that congregate everywhere.

 

He wakes up with a stretch and a yawn that could only come from a sleep so fulfilling that meant he was almost dead to the world for 8 hours.

 

Sansa is gone. Not even any strands of hair or a hint of perfume left on the pillow to remember her by.

 

He’d said he’d deal with the morning rush hour for her, but she’s snuck out in a quiet exit that he didn’t think was possible of her. His loud American. No.

 

Not his.

 

But she’d left his coat hung up on the hook by his door and placed his other hastily discarded clothes on the chair at his desk. She tidied up nicely, a kind gesture. There’s a whining at his door and pattering paws.

 

Wasn’t she just here? Isn’t this the previous morning on repeat? Dickens will come in. She’ll coo and they’ll stay in bed all morning. Visit a museum all day. Ride the Metro. Have dinner with the Tumbleweeds. Then fall back into bed.

 

It’s a cycle he wouldn’t mind repeating.

 

Coffee is a necessity for any further thinking. Besides he has to work.

 

Life goes on.

 

Two night stands become nothing more than a memory and a story.

 

He goes to his desk and pulls his phone out of his discarded pants’ pocket.

 

_How are things going?_

 

No group message this time he sees. Just him and her.

 

Received an hour ago.

 

Did Sansa hear the buzz? Did she just think it was Margaery? Did she sneak a look? Or was she gone long before that?

 

Another hour and a half before he needs to join Eddard in the bookshop. He feels heavy.

 

_How are things going?_

 

This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

 

He should be feeling light. It was just supposed to be a one night thing. Something to get out of his system. Someone to keep the loneliness at bay.  Not getting stuck on another red-haired woman.

 

A girl truly.

 

His desk is more of a mess than it was two days prior when he first checked on its cleanliness. After his premeditated questionable act of “kindness.” Stacks of books have been pushed out of their order and his notebooks are scattered on the floor. But he sees a note on his blue Moleskine placed neatly in the middle with a message scrawled in half cursive half print.

 

A number with an American area code.

_I’ve got Wi-Fi at the school. I’ll be there until 12:30._

_Sorry about messing up your books._

_You’ll have to show me what your system for categorizing them is._

 

The heaviness in his chest lifts.

 

Her

 

She arrives at her apartment only to be last in line for the shower.

 

Her housemates show no mercy for her. Only pressing her for details while they conduct their morning routine. Set in a rhythmic pattern now that they’ve been there for a month.

 

Now that they’re leaving so soon.

 

Sarella smirks as she applies a thick cat eye in the mirror next to Jeyne in the living room. “So you’re going to have to take me to this bookstore sometime.”

 

“Me too!” Myrcella squeals. Opening the bathroom door to let the steam out. “Don’t worry I left you enough hot water. I hope.”

 

“You’ll definitely need it to clean off everything you’ve been up to the past two nights.”

 

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

 

“I can see why you spent so much time at a dusty old book shop.”

 

“I’m not taking you anywhere near there. You can find it on your own time.”

 

“Do you really think that’s the wisest route Sansa? We’ll just go and embarrass you!”

 

By the time she’s out of the shower they’re already gone. She feels clean, but melancholy.  A back and forth argument in her head over the outcome of her note. A back and forth argument about what she would even want from Petyr if he chooses to send her a message.

 

7:45. She has 15 minutes to get to her class.

 

Dr. Targaryen sits on the desk talking to the students who have arrived earlier with plenty of time to spare. Sansa isn’t the last though and she takes a glance at the small group of eighteen before sitting.

 

“Ah Sansa. Perfect so we’re just missing Tommen and Harry.” She looks at the other girls Sansa sits next to. “Didn’t they go to Italy over the weekend?”

 

Myrcella shakes her head, “Just Harry. Tommen got sick and stayed in their apartment all weekend.”

 

Bullshit. Sansa bites down a smirk. If Tommen doesn’t want his sister to know then she won’t be the one to tell her.

 

“That’s a bit of a shame. What did you do with your last free weekend Sansa?”

 

“I actually just spent it all at Shakespeare and Company. The staff is super welcoming.”

 

“I bet they are,” Sarella mutters next to her.

 

But Doctor Targaryen’s reply covers Sarella’s sass, “Oh how wonderful! We were supposed to meet there for class on Wednesday. The woman I was corresponding with went to Syria so it was going to be canceled, but she emailed me saying she’d be back sooner and would still love to host our last class there on Thursday. Perfectly ties end of our class together where the Americans all met right?”

 

_Where did Cat go?_

_Syria._

 

_I haven’t seen Petyr smile this much since Cat left._

 

“Oh wow how perfect!” Her cheer is a lie.

 

Tommen enters the room saving her from anymore jibes or conversation.

 

Class begins. Her phone buzzes in her bag. She’s taking copious notes on the process of getting published in Paris’s booming literature scene.

 

When she finally looks at her phone her reaction is mixed.

 

A number with a Parisian area code.

 

_I think you’ve stolen something of mine. I’d like it back._

_Tomorrow? Lunch or dinner?_

 

Him

 

He gave her a choice. A day to think it over.

He still hasn’t received a reply.

 

There are plenty of people for a Tuesday morning to occupy his time. He’s helpful and conversational and he’s trying very hard not to look at the clock or his phone.

 

Neither of which are on his side.

 

His phone hasn’t buzzed and the black cat clock next to the register is edging ever nearer to 12:30.

 

Someone’s playing piano upstairs. A strange disjointed version of  _Bohemian Rhapsody_. As if they’re trying to figure out the right order of the keys again.

 

 _B sharp not E_ he thinks to himself.

 

Whoever’s upstairs catches their mistake and suddenly it’s starting to sound a lot more like the Queen hit than before.

 

His phone reverberates against the counter and he flips it over to see a text from Margaery.

 

_Stealing her for the day you can have her back tomorrow._

 

Her

 

Margaery is waiting outside of their school. Navy blue and strawberry blonde leaning against yellow brick.

 

When Sansa steps out of the elevated courtyard onto the public sidewalk she stops.

 

“Margaery what are you doing here?”

 

“I came to steal you away before Petyr got to you.”

 

“I was just about to surprise him.”

 

“Nope. When I asked whether you’d ditch me for Petyr or not you said, ‘I don’t even know Petyr!’ And then proceeded to make promises of tourist destinations. Well, now we’re going. The Eiffel Tower and every statue on our way there has got our name on them.”

 

“How did you even know where our classes were?” Sansa asks. She takes a glance back at the still open giant maroon security door. Tommen was right behind her with Harry, his sister, Sarella, and Jeyne and if she can hold Margaery off long enough perhaps-

 

“Tommen of course. I’m not that good at stalking.” Margaery grabs her arm and starts a quick pace.

 

“Wait, wait give me a second.” Sansa checks her phone. One last bar of WiFi signal showing in the left corner. She pulls up her text messages and replies.

 

_Margaery’s abducting me. Sorry for the late text, I wanted to surprise you at the shop._

_Dinner sounds lovely._

 

She forces Margaery to wait until “Delivered” appears under the text and then puts it on airplane mode.

 

“Okay, okay where to?”

 

“Your apartment first. You’re not bringing your schoolbooks with you.”

 

Him

 

_We miss you._

_I miss everyone too! You’re not treating Dickens too horribly?_

_Never. He’s torn up the entirety of your bedroom though. All that angst because his mom’s gone._

 

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket repeatedly.

 

_Margaery’s abducting me. Sorry for the late text, I wanted to surprise you at the shop._

_Pft I’m not a dog mom. I’ll be home tomorrow by the way. Moved my flight up._

_Dinner sounds lovely._

 

He glances at his and Cat’s thread of texts before going back to Sansa’s. Once again he finds himself cursing Margaery. But perhaps it’s for the best.

 

Clearing his head of Sansa is for the best. They’ll have dinner. They’ll talk about literature.

 

She’ll go home to her apartment.

 

Or she’ll come back to his.

_I wanted to surprise you at the shop._

 

No. She’ll go home to her apartment.

 

_Glad to hear you’ll be back. Should we meet you at the airport? A cheesy welcome home sign?_

 

This is his life. The bookshop, the café, the Tumbleweeds, drinking, writing.

 

Not Sansa.

 

Her

 

They’re at the second level of the Eiffel Tour sipping coffee instead of wine and looking at the view. Their ascent to the top over and done with.

 

It was intense. Her stomach still churning from the steps. She realizes that perhaps, with so much wind and wine it might not have been the best idea to walk the entire way.  Her palms sweat at the idea of those brown metal steps. Gaps seemingly wide enough for a human to fall through the brown metal grates.

 

Straight down to the ground. 1,000 feet away.

 

Frightening, but invigorating all the same. And the view of the Paris rooftops is all she could ever ask for. She even sees Sacré-Cœur in the distance. Notré-Dame the only other Paris height she hasn’t reached the top of. Margaery’s eyes are alight.

 

“God I haven’t climbed those steps since my first time in here.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“About two and a half years ago.”

 

“Oh so you don’t live at the shop anymore?”

 

Margaery shakes her head. “No I have my own place in the fifth arrondissment. I’m just an old decrepit Company staff member. But every time Cat’s away I end up staying in her room. Keep the boys in line.”

 

The infamous Cat. Who she’ll meet in just two days.

 

“Except you didn’t this weekend because you were busy elsewhere.”

 

Margaery smiles. “I never thanked you for Tommen. Even though you betrayed me.”

 

“I never thanked you for Sunday.”

 

“I’d say we’re even on the ungratefulness then.”

 

Sansa lets her emotional hand show a little. “So did Cat take over for Walt Stillman’s daughter then?”

 

“You really know your Shakespeare and Company history.” Margaery laughs. “You should come live in Paris and work there. We need more women, that’s for sure.”

 

“I’m not fluent in French. That wouldn’t be any help.”

 

“Take a year and learn it. Find a good professor when you go back home and finish your degree. It’s not an impossible feat. You’d fit right in.” She takes a sip of her overpriced latte. Polished cream nails brushing over the silhouette of the tower on the heat sleeve. “But yes, Cat took the reins when she left. She and Eddard are ready to move onto something else though. They’ll probably leave soon. So who knows what the future holds. Less fantastic baked goods I suppose.”

 

“Oh she and Eddard? I thought, with his comment last night…”

 

“Petyr and Cat are like brother and sister.” Margaery says with another laugh, but there’s something underneath the highness of the laugh. A stiffness in her jaw. Too tight of a smile.

 

Or Sansa’s just overthinking it. It doesn’t matter either way. She’s got seven days. Cat’s probably a lovely human being. She shouldn’t feel the gross jealousy that she does. 

 

“Why did she go to Syria?”

 

Margaery shrugs, “She wanted to do a human rights piece. She was only supposed to be gone two weeks. She freelances every so often for different papers. Actually, I think she’s heading back this week. You might get the chance to meet her! She’ll love you to bits honestly. Cat’s the only one who could rival Petyr with knowledge about the American writers. The rest of us are all well-versed in the Brit Lit sector. Robert may be a drunk, but he could teach you a bit about the Russians if you asked.”

 

She looks out at the river to their left. The sun is shining straight into the plexy-glass windows. A child screams in some unrecognizable language. “Perhaps I’ll get the chance in these last few days.” She laughs. “A girl comes to Paris and spends her entire time in an English bookshop. What a story to tell.”

 

There’s no reason for her not to bring up the Thursday meeting, but she knows it’ll get to Petyr and she doesn’t entirely want him to know about it.

 

There’s that weird unreasonable envy she feels. That she knows is unnecessary and conditioned by society, but a feeling that she can’t stop anyway.

 

If he’s involved she’d rather not have him know until he needs to. It shouldn’t matter anyway. They spent a day together. Two nights. What of it?

 

Margaery seems to sense her shift in mood. “Shall we take the lift down?”

 

“Oh god yes. It’s freezing.”

 

“You know where we should go now?”

 

“The catacombs? Highest tourist point to the lowest tourist point?”

 

“I have a better, less macabre, idea than that.” Margaery’s smile is akin to the night she set her up to go to Duc de Lombards.

 

“And what’s that?” Sansa replies slowly.

 

They join the queue for the lift down. The wind whipping Margaery’s curls around. “I think you need one last very Parisian souvenir.”

 

Sansa laughs, “Margaery I had to buy another duffel bag for all my books and gifts for my family. I seriously can’t buy anything else.

 

“Don’t worry these will all be small.”

 

“’These?’”

 

Him

 

_We’re almost home. You can quit pacing._

_I wasn’t pacing._

_Mhm. You should take her to Le Cave._

_Except Loras has a dress code. And a two month waiting list._

_Well he’s my brother so reservations don’t apply._

_And Sansa was kind enough to allow me to dress her up. There’s a suit hidden in your closet. You can thank me later with a very flattering character named Margaret when you write a novel about this._

 

He rolls his eyes. Already at his desk working on a piece. Biding his time.

 

Collecting his thoughts from the past week. When he first saw Sansa. To now.

 

Waiting for Margaery to quit teasing him with Eiffel Tower selfies.

 

Coffee selfies.

 

Historical figure statues selfies.

 

Wine selfies.

 

If he had gotten another selfie of the two of them he would have tossed his phone out the window.

 

But it wasn’t. So he stands and warily pushes clothes aside and finds a garment bag tucked away. The canvas he’d been working on still facing the wall fortunately. The quick and quiet way in which Margaery schemes frightens him.

 

He unzips the bag and starts putting the suit on anyway.

 

Her

 

“Margaery.”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“I can’t go in there.”

 

“Oh yes you can. I’ve already made you an appointment.”

 

“Margaery!”

 

“Think of it as a gift for yourself and a gift for…”

 

“Margaery stop.”

 

“You’ve got dinner reservations in,” she glances down at her watch, “three hours and we still have to get you ready.”

 

“You just love meddling don’t you?”

 

“That’s my middle name! Well Madeleine, but if you say it quickly enough. Sounds the same.”

 

Him

 

The street is quiet. Shoes echoing against the slick sidewalk, no passerby in this direction. It’ll rain again before the night is done. He can smell it. The suit feels odd on him. Jeans and jumpers being his main winter wardrobe pieces.

 

He’d been expecting Margaery and Sansa to show up at the store, but she’d texted soon after he’d finished getting ready telling him to meet at the restaurant.

 

There’s only been one other time he’s set foot here. A birthday celebration for Margaery. A smash success of a restaurant for her brother and his husband.

 

He’s getting anxious at the thought of this dinner. Trying to think of anything, but the act he’s got to put on now. The act of disinterest. Dishonesty. Denial of any bit of the desire he’s feeling.

 

The host smiles at him when he says his name and gestures for him to follow. The entrance is dark with only a little dim light allowing any notion of where these stairs are taking him. Down the steps encased by rock walls on either side. The restaurant’s name does it justice. He feels as though he has entered a cave. The point of course. Loras and Renly’s  _vision_  of a cave under Paris. Less morbid than catacombs.

 

Then it’s open again and, while still dim, there’s more light than the suffocating staircase. Champagne bottle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling providing most of the light, combined with the stereotypical tea lights on the tables. Then he spots her.

 

Her

 

It’s worrying her that she’s first. Margaery saying there wasn’t time for them to come back to the store. Wanting her to meet her brother. She sees the siblings share the same eyes. The same curly blonde curls tinged with hints of red. But then they both left her at her table. Margaery leaving for her own business. Loras turning back to other patrons.

 

Her surroundings, the people, her new dress and everything underneath. All new. At least her shoes are old and a comfort. Gold flats that she packed under the guise that she’d go out to a nice dinner. Perhaps buy a dress to go with them. Have some consumable good to show off. A story of one last Parisian dinner in a restaurant far above her undergrad budget.  

 

Granted when she thought that, she was imagining with her fellow students.  Not someone like Petyr.

 

Anxiety, that had been gone all day with Margaery by her side, creeps back into her mind.

 

Then he’s there. In a black suit and white shirt. Unruly curly hair tamed a little, but not too much.

 

How does he get a happy medium like that? Does it just happen? Is he just absolutely perfect?

 

Then there’s the stare in his eye. She thinks she might have to change her attitude about keeping a safe distance. She might have to break her pact to herself about not staying the night if he offers with a look like that.

  

Him

 

“Did you arrange all of this?” He asks knowing full well she didn’t.

 

“You think very highly of my possible adeptness after two hours of French lessons.”

 

“I’m a very good teacher. _And_ I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to be further indebted to Margaery.”

 

“You and I both.” They share a laugh. “You do look very handsome though.”

 

“Just the dim lighting. Suits ruin my starving writer aesthetic. It’s not the 1920’s after all. Jeans are an everyday thing.”

 

There are no words for her. Any compliment he gives her will never amount to what he wishes he could put into words. So he resorts to teasing. Cover up everything he’s feeling. Light-hearted flirting.

 

“Did you pack that with intentions of coming here and stealing some Parisian boy’s heart?”

 

The blush in her cheeks trails down to the low v of her gold dress’s neckline.

 

“No, but I bought it today thinking about some not so innocent intentions with this Irish guy.”

 

A waiter stops him from acting on his baser thoughts of taking her back home before the wine’s been ordered.

 

Her

 

Of course Margaery has taken care of everything. What dream has she found herself living in? Where she spent two weeks holed up in a bookshop and met such a wonderful friend who knew just what she needed and how to help her get it.

 

Then there’s the sinking feeling. They’re midway through dessert; a thick chocolate mousse confection that she never would have ordered herself, but soon realizes is the best thing she tasted in her life. The conversation has bounced back and forth.

Focusing mostly on literature. Safer than the drunken details of each other’s lives. That wouldn’t help the conundrum she finds herself in.

 

His mouth moves faster and more often than his hands. Quiet, but passionate all the same. Rarely gesticulating to prove his point. He pauses once in a while to gather his thoughts. Arm resting on the edge of the table. Rubs his thumb and forefinger together until he snaps them when it finally hits him.

 

She knew there was no way this could end positively.

 

Him

 

He’s been ranting about how if people would just read Orwell more often or even just read him at all, perhaps the world wouldn’t be as fucked up and worthless as it is. She smiles as he takes a sip of his wine.

 

“I’m not even talking 1984. Although, that’s the main one that comes to mind obviously. I mean, take his personal essays for example. ‘Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.’ That’s pure poetry. That’s a call out to every form of government. Every politician.”

 

“It’s true. You’ll find no argument from me. If you read those essays today they still ring true. It’s a cyclical force, history that is. I’m terrible at remembering quotes, but that’s the same set of essays where he says something about Hitler’s puppet government not being the working men, but bankers, the right-wing, and some other group.”

 

“Generals. Yes, that’s the same set.” Their half-eaten deserts long forgotten in front of them. The wine touches his lips again. He watches her pour a little bit more from the bottle into her glass.

 

“Please stop me if I reach for this bottle again. I’ve had more wine on this trip than I ever imagined I could consume,” she laughs and takes a sip.

 

He knows he won’t.

 

“But anyway,” she begins again. “Generals. Bankers. The right-wing. Take a look at the cabinet possibilities in the U.S. Every single one fits into those three categories. The whole world feels like it’s falling apart. The day after the election I had a professor say something about how things like this pass. She lived through the sixties. Through Kennedy being shot. Through the Cold War. But it just feels like…”

 

She sighs and takes another sip. Her cheeks are rosy. The woman from the Metro crosses his mind. Sansa just cares too much. Such a young heart bleeding so visibly. His nihilism feels fake in comparison.

 

“I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. It’s just, Trump. Brexit. Who do you possibly have to deal with soon? Le Pen? Isn’t she the one everyone’s worried will win? Or is your political allegiance in Ireland still?”

 

“Currently in the process of becoming a permanent ex-pat actually. So yes, I’m particularly worried about Le Pen.” He laughs.

 

“You really are a Lost then! Honestly, I took you for a Beat.”

 

“Ginsberg’s not too bad, but Kerouac?” A mock shudder. “I’m offended you’d think so low of me.”

 

Her eyes roll and she shakes her head, “Anyway, so you’re rooting for macaron then- wait no Macron not macaron. Oh my god.” Her entire face is as red as the wine, covering her laugh with her hand.

 

He shrugs, “I think a pastry might do well as a president. Although, their sweetness couldn’t compare to yours.”

 

That earns him an eye roll, but she laughs harder. Eyes crinkling. How could he ever think of distancing himself from any of this?

 

“I think I need to walk off this wine. What do you say?”

 

Her

 

It’s 10:30 when they resurface from the restaurant. The streets quiet. 

 

No cars pass by. Barely any people are in the area. Smoking on the sidewalk outside late night cafes and bars. Shop windows darkened until the next day when they’ll open again.

 

Cobblestones beneath them. A safe measure of space between them. Bumping arms every so often.

 

But neither reaches out to entwine fingers. No arms wrapped around each other.

 

“Where are we? I feel like I recognize this street.”

 

“Well much of Paris has the same aesthetic Sansa,” he teases.

 

It’s bittersweet that she can tell the difference between his teasing and his taunting now.

 

“We’re near the Pantheon. All those glorious dead men…turned to dust in ornate marble.”

 

“Oh! You’re going to hate me, but I need a tourist photo.”

 

“At the Pantheon? It’s all locked up.”

 

“No across the street! Which direction is the Pantheon?”

 

She fumbles for her phone to look at the map she screenshot earlier during her trip. The name of a church if she was ever in the area.

 

“Um it’ll be those lights.” He points at the stream aimed at the sky. “They’re always on. What’s across the street?”

 

“Something that will make you very mad,” she smirks.

 

His eyebrows furrow and his thumb rubs at his tie. “I can hardly wait then since I can’t think of what it could be.”

 

They’re nearing the Pantheon. She can see the lights on the Roman columns. The giant gate shut for the night. They circle it and head to the left. She leads him on an unsure path down the street.

 

Deciphering the map on her phone. Looking up. Then back down. Then back up. Searching.

 

“What is it you’re looking for?”

 

“ _Saint-Étienne-du-Mont_. I know I butchered that pronunciation. Don’t judge.”

 

“ _Saint_? A church?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why do you want to see a church this late at night?”

 

“Well it’s actually not late enough. Midnight would be preferable.”

 

The church is in view now, but it doesn’t look right. There wasn’t a door and the street was in front not on the right side?

 

“Midnight? What are you even-” It hits him. “Oh my god. _Midnight in Paris_?”

 

They’re both grinning now.

 

His accompanied by raised eyebrows. Judgment oozing in his expression.

 

“Yes. You’re just lucky I was joking about jumping into the seine. I could have dragged you over there instead. Ruined that very nice suit. This was just purely coincidental.”

 

“ _Touristique_.” His head is shaking, but he’s laughing at least. A hand running through his hair.

 

“And proud of it now. I just can’t find the right spot.”

 

They’ve reached the church by now. The stones match. But the red door is wrong. Did the cover that bit? No. She can still see the Pantheon and that’s not right.

 

“It’s over here.”

 

Sansa stops and looks at his face instead of the direction he’s pointing at.

 

“Hang on. How would you know that?”

 

“Just because I judge it doesn’t mean I haven’t seen it.”

 

“How many times?”

 

He looks at her, “Enough to know what steps you’re looking for.”

 

“You’re such a softie for Woody Allen. Of course you are. All those manic pixie dream girls.”

 

“ _No_. I like the narrative of one film. That doesn’t make me a softie for him. Do you want me to take your waiting for Scott Fitzgerald photo or not?”

 

They’re around the corner and there, that street looks more familiar. The post office across the way ruining the aesthetic. She can envision the film crew covering that up, but Petyr is truly in front of her and she laughs as she stands on the steps.

 

“This is so silly.”

 

“It’s a little too late for you to realize that now.”

 

She notices he takes the photos on his own phone. Hers tucked back into her coat pocket when he found the way. Their day spent together, the kissing, the hand holding, the laughter, it all feels nearer to her now.

 

Not that dinner wasn’t amazing. But she can tell she wasn’t the only one putting some distance.

 

A barrier. She doesn’t want that anymore. Not on these steps at least.

 

Him

 

“Come over here.”

 

“I think we’re out of luck on the magic time-traveling car.”

 

“Oh stop being such an Inez and sit down with me.”

 

“These steps are wet. You’re ruining your dress.”

 

“It’s just a dress.”

 

“It’s a very nice dress though.”

 

Her hair is curled, the first time he’s ever seen it like this, and it sticks to her black coat. No yellow one tonight. He twists a curl around his finger. The first time either of them has fully initiated some form of contact. She shivers.

 

“See. You shouldn’t be sitting on wet steps in the cold,” he murmurs. “It’s almost 11 o’clock at night.”

 

There’s hesitation. Her eyes meet his and dart down his face. “Fuck it,” she mutters before he feels her lips on his again.

 

His hand abandons her hair for a moment. Traces the edge of her cheek. Cradles her face with just the slightest pressure. She breaks away only to lean her forehead against his.

 

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I should be…should be…not doing that.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

A pathetic laugh escapes her mouth. He swallows while he tries to find the words that make him so ashamed.

 

“What is it?” Their foreheads aren’t touching anymore as she leans away.

 

“You’ve made me so…happy these past few days. In such a short time, you’ve done so much for me in even the smallest of ways. Since you walked in that door a week and a half ago…I’ve grown… very accustomed to you being here.”

 

There. The words are out. He can’t take them back. He wouldn’t take them back. He didn’t even know those were the words he needed to say.

 

It feels good to let out some honesty.

 

There are tears in her eyes and she kisses him again. The street is just as quiet as before. No cars. No people.

 

Just the two of them on those stupid steps.

 

“You’ve made me happy too. So unbelievably happy. From the first time you glared at me when the door slammed behind me-” his laughter interrupts her and she laughs too. “God you’re such an asshole.”

 

“You’ll never hear me say otherwise.”

 

She leans in to kiss him again. Fingers holding his face as his arms wrap around her.

 

“It’s going to rain soon. We should go somewhere.”

 

“I told myself I wasn’t going to go home with you.”

 

“Fitting. I told myself I would make sure you went to your own apartment tonight. Something about distancing myself from you.”

 

“Now why would we tell ourselves that when you’ve got such a nice bed?”

 

“Some stupid reason probably. My bed is very nice.”

 

Neither of them makes a move to stand up. Her chin rests on his shoulder. With a slight turn she kisses his neck lightly.

 

“I should go to my own apartment.”

 

He knows it’s true. Knows that’s what’s best.

 

“I suppose you should.”

 

Time ticks by. The night getting progressively colder.

 

Yet they stay warm on the steps. Until the rain starts to spatter on the stone around them.

 

Him

 

Wednesday passes without any contact again.

 

But he won’t initiate it this time. He’ll wait for her to decide.

 

He finds himself at the airport with Eddard and Margaery picking up Cat.

 

When he sees her there’s no heart jumping in his throat.

 

No jealousy at her only having eyes for Eddard first.

 

Nothing of the sort except for the joy of having her safe at home.

 

“Oh thank god you guys are here.”

 

They take her stuff. Margaery handing off a thermos of coffee she’d brewed before they left the shop together. 

 

Cat takes a sip and smiles, “So what did I miss?”

 

“Oh no you don’t get off that easy,” Eddard laughs. “How was Syria?”

 

“Nope. You’ll all get to read about it when I’m done. I’m not discussing any of it until I’ve gotten some solid drafts sent off.”

 

“You’re so weird about your writing,” Margaery mutters.

 

“Says the one who can’t write a first draft without a rose cardamom latte,” Petyr jabs.

 

He gets an eye roll in return, but Cat kisses his cheek.

 

Nothing. No feeling, but the happiness that she’s safe. It worries him.

 

Him

 

“Seriously, what did I miss while I was gone? Did you really let Dickens tear up my room Petyr?”

 

“Of course not. I just let him piss all over your bed.”

 

They’re in Margaery’s kitchen. The shop’s kitchen is far too small for all of them to be inside at once so Margery’s apartment was the only choice for their little reunion. With Eddard and Robert out getting takeway it’s the trio drinking and snacking on cheese. 

 

“Gross. Stop it.”

 

“Speaking of gross, Petyr fucked an undergrad,” Margaery smirks.

 

“What?! I could tell you got laid, but I never would have thought an undergrad! Just please tell me there isn’t a teen still attached to her age.”

 

“Hang on,” he laughs. “One, Margaery you must find yourself gross too because you aided in getting me and said undergrad together. _And_ also fucked her classmate. Two, how can you tell I got laid by being around me for a total of,” he glances down at his watch, “two hours? Three, no, there isn’t. She’s 22.”

 

“Petyr you needed to get a good bone jumping that’s how Cat could tell. And 22 is still a decade between the two of you. Don’t say it! I already know Tommen’s 21 too.” Margaery’s laugh accompanied by a shudder. “I honestly just wanted to get it out there because we all know you wouldn’t have told her.”

 

“There’s nothing to tell.” Cat eyes him warily and he sighs. “She’s just a student studying abroad who spent a lot of time at the shop. Margaery meddled and got us together. We spent a couple of nights together.”

 

“And an entire day. A dinner at Loras’s. Everyone at the shop loves her.”

 

“Margaery stop. It’s nothing. She goes home this week. She’ll have a nice little story for her blog.”

 

Then both women are looking at him because they know he’s lying. Know that he gets attached too quickly and deeply.

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“You’ll love her Cat. She’s all about the Modernists.”

 

“Is that true Petyr? Will I love her?”

 

“I have no idea. Margaery knows her better than I do.”

 

_No, she doesn’t. Yes, you will._

 

Her

 

This is worse than she thought it would be.

 

Sarella and Jeyne have finally stopped elbowing her every time Petyr speaks, but there’s still discomfort in the reading room. They’ve realized that the dynamic between Petyr and Cat is not the one they’d want to be witnessing if they’d just spent two consecutive nights with him.

 

Cat is everything Sansa wants to be. She’s traveled all over. Written for _The New Yorker_ , _The Paris Review_ , and a handful of other foreign publications she’s never heard of, but hurriedly scribbles the names of in her notebook. She came to Paris, after a brief stop home in England with a degree in English and French from NYU, and soon stayed with her dual citizenship.

She keeps her eyes on Cat. Even when Petyr’s talking. Talking to everyone in the crowd, but her it seems. He doesn’t look up much, preferring to keep his eyes on Cat during the talk. The only look Sansa received from Petyr was when she walked in the front door. A grin and a look of delighted surprise, but once he heard Cat greet Dr. Targaryen, who Sansa had been walking in with, he understood in a flash and retreated upstairs immediately.

 

Now they’re midway through a talk, so similar to the two she’s been to already, with Petyr and Cat.

 

She sees it. How they bounce off of one another so easily. Anecdotes and ideas and smiles and laughter.

 

“Petyr here is making it seem more depressing than it is.”

 

“I’d say Joyce’s life was pretty depressing.”

 

“Oh no doubt about that. But while his life had lots of depression there was happiness as well. Take a look at his love letters. Has anyone read them in here?”

 

Five students raise their hands, including Sansa.

 

“I’m impressed. I didn’t actually expect that many,” Cat laughs. “They’re quite raunchy. Joyce loves bodily functions too. Farting comes up periodically. Poop too. ”

 

“Such romantic notions to bring up in a love letter. Nora must have been tantalized,” Petyr rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m getting to my point. Quiet yourself,” she shakes her head as most of the class laughs at his quip.

 

Sansa can feel Myrcella’s gaze on her. A look of pity because oh yes they definitely come off as  _siblings._

Right Margaery?

 

“Okay where was I? Joyce’s raunchy love letters. There’s so much love and adoration in there along with all of the fart and dirty sex talk. Which, by the way, people act like sex for fun wasn’t happening in history. As long as it doesn’t involve technology, any type of sex you can imagine was happening in Joyce’s letters.” She smiles allowing the laughter at the crudeness before continuing on. “Mixed in with all of the issues of disavowing his religion and whatnot. I mean, regarding French culture, it’s part of the difference between ours and your American culture. In America, your religion is a huge part of your identity, for the most part, which can come with many ideas of sexual repression. Whereas in France, politics are a major part of your identity and sex is a freer subject. It’s not so taboo. Oh boy did I get off topic, but I suppose you guys might be interested in the cultural differences. The word sex usually wakes any of the sleepers up too. ”

 

Even Sansa cracks a smile while the class continues to enjoy her talk.

 

“Wait, so I actually have a question about relationships then.” Myrcella starts. “Is it just, like, normal for people to have sex with whoever then, even if they’re dating someone?”

 

There are titters in their group of students at Myrcella's unusual forwardness, on such a random topic. Sansa’s poker face isn’t strong, but she tries. A blank expression because eyes that were pointedly not looking at her are in her direction now.

 

“Well we don’t really have  _dating_. That concept isn’t the same for France as yours is. So in the United States you go on dates, you have a courting process, you’re inevitably following a path that leads to marriage. It’s clear cut, relatively, there’s a  _process_. So you have to have monogamy. Unless you’re friends with, damn what’s that term again? Friends with-”

 

“Benefits,” Sansa speaks up. “Friends with benefits.”

 

“Yes! Benefits, wow that word completely escaped me. Anyway, if you have sex with someone there aren’t any attachments. Sometimes it’s just sex. Marriage isn’t the end all be all for relationships and sometimes that’s all an attachment is. Sex. With French ‘dating’ culture it’s more ambiguous. There isn’t some stage in the beginnings of a relationship where it’s spelled out clear and concise that you are in a serious relationship after so many weeks of dating. It’s implied, but you’re rarely like, ‘We’re boyfriend and girlfriend now. Let’s announce it to everyone we know.’ You just kind of have fun with it. And love is supposed to be fun, isn’t it? Oh no you guys gotta stop laughing at me, I always worry when I make people laugh. What have I said?”

 

“Well that just seems like cheating if you’re already with someone,” Sarella scoffs.

 

There’s murmuring in the group. Myrcella’s arms are crossed and her disdain for Petyr openly apparent.

 

“I feel like I’ve miscommunicated something. Petyr why don’t you add some insight to this conversation?”

 

“Well seeing as you were supposed to be talking about Joyce’s depression, but just wanted to bring up his raunchy letters you’re obsessed with,” more laughter from the students follows that dig, “I don’t really know what to add.”

  _What a cop out,_ Sansa wants to say.

“What a great partner in literary lectures you are,” Cat shakes her head in exasperation. “I suppose sex and romance are what we Parisians are known for and that’s why all those American writers came here for some fun. No I’m kidding. I’m kidding, don’t quote me on that.”

 

“Well we have taken up quite a bit of your day already so I suppose that’s as good a place as any to leave off,” Doctor Targaryen laughs. “You’ve given us all so much valuable information. How many of you are going to write blog posts on sex in France instead of Shakespeare and Company?”

 

A smattering of hands raise and Petyr smirks at Cat’s face covering. “Please come to me if you have more questions. I don’t want to see posts about some crazy lady obsessed with Joyce’s sex life. But thank you all for coming. You’ve been a lovely bunch. Please, if you have any more questions I’m here all day. Hang out. Buy some books.”

 

There’s applause for the two of them, accepted with modest nods, then chairs scrape against the wood as they all start dispersing. Scooching the cushioned benches back in their spots, stacking chairs.

 

Sansa sees Petyr duck into the secret door towards the Tumbleweed Hotel. A glance back at her before he goes. She turns to see Cat narrowing her eyes at his retreating.

 

“Alright before you all leave just make sure you upload your blog posts and email your essays tomorrow. Our farewell dinner is tonight at 8, but the rest of your day is to do with as you please.”

 

The class starts heading down the stairs after Dr. Targaryen’s announcement, but Sansa sticks behind.

 

Myrcella eyes her warily.

 

“I’ve just got a couple of questions about publishing here. I’ll see you guys at home around 2ish?”

 

“Did I hear that correctly? Questions about publishing?” Cat chimes as she moves the velvet rope blocking the entrance, into the Tumbleweed Hotel hallway. Closing the doors behind her. “Those are my second favorite types of questions.”

 

“Yeah,” Sansa laughs, “I just figured you know all of the things about Shakespeare and Company there is to know. You guys are publish books too right?”

 

“Mmm,” she noncommittedly tilts her head from shoulder to shoulder. “Sort of. Very limited publishing. We’re trying to start the old ways back up again. It’s just a lot of money, time, and people that we don’t have.”

 

“Ah I see. That makes sense. I had just purchased the biography you wrote about Stillman and the store had the publishing seal.”

 

“Yeah that’s one of the more recent ones. Are you a writer? Or interested in publishing in Paris?”

 

“Oh no. I don’t even speak French. I’ve just found a solace here during this trip and all of my favorite authors are part of the Lost generation so it’s just kind of turned into a bit of a personal research project.”

 

“Well it’s nice to meet a fellow Modernist fan. What’s your name?”

 

“Sansa,” she holds out a hand. Cat shakes it with a firm grip.

 

“Ah, nice to meet you Sansa. That all makes sense. Margaery mentioned you.”

 

“Oh did she? How kind of her.”

 

“Yes she did. Any Modernist fan is a friend of mine. Why don’t I treat you to a true Hemingway Fitzgerald lunch of escargot and gin? Except I won't ask to compare dicks in the bathroom. ”

 

Sansa’s laughter mixes with Cat’s. She understands completely why anyone would love this woman. “That would be wonderful. Thanks.”  

 

Him

He breaks out the cognac and charcoal when he leaves the lecture and hasn’t stopped. Two full glasses knocked back in such a short period of time. A third one that he sips thoughtfully. His left hand crossing the pages with rushed, but deft movements. Lines forming the moments in his mind he both doesn’t want to forget, but wouldn’t mind getting out of his head. It’s half past two when he hears the front door squeak. Her chunky heels hitting the Tumbleweed stairs with a clunk on each one. He shifts his papers so the obvious ones of Sansa are covered.

 

“That lecture didn’t turn out like I thought it would,” Cat admits when she sits down at the table. "I had a nice lunch though I would have invited you if you hadn’t _run away_. I see you went with a liquid lunch option." 

 

“‘Petyr why don’t you add some insight to the conversation?’ What made you think  _that_  was the right move?” He huffs. There’s no one at home. Only the two of them in the cramped place.

 

“I figured you could make amends with some bullshit Lost mantra about polyamorous relationships.”

 

“Yes, make amends with that in front of her entire class. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

 

Cat’s smiling now and taking his glass away to sip from. “I meant make amends to the way the lecture had turned.”

 

His brow furrows. The senses dulled a bit. Why does he even  _try_  to lie to Cat anymore?

 

“I  _knew_  you had more feelings for her than you were letting on. You’re being such an idiot.”

 

“I know. She leaves soon though. It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does. She’s young, but she’s not stupid.” She tosses the rest of the cognac down the sink. “Where’s your phone?”

 

Her

They’re packing up the entire apartment. Cleaning every inch. Even the mold in the shower (that was there when they arrived) is gone. A trash bag of wasted food, bought too late in the trip in too large of quantities. A bag of clothes to be left for donation. (Mostly Jeyne’s who seemed to buy at least one thing from every boutique they visited.)

 

They’re blasting  _Moulin Rouge_ now that they have no qualms about their neighbors calling the police if they’re too loud. Jeyne sings Christian’s parts. Myrcella as Santine. Sarella films it all, choosing artistic shots over a simple far away still glimpse of the ridiculous action. Sansa continues to sweep the kitchen, chiming in as various other characters whenever necessary.

 

“Do you think we have enough time to run back to Montmarte before dinner tonight?” Jeyne laughs when they all collapse on the couch after their rendition of  _Elephant Love Medley_ comes to a close. “I feel the need for a cheesy photo session at Moulin Rouge.”

 

“We should,” Myrcella says with a glance at her watch. “If we leave in like 20 minutes.”

 

Sansa and Myrcella head to their shared bedroom, while Sarella and Jeyne take the trash down to the creepy basement reserved for trash, recyclables, and murder by the looks of the dim single bulb lighting.

 

Sansa’s applying mascara, her back to Myrcella when her phone chimes.

 

_Mistakes are the portals of discovery._

“I need help reacting to something.”

 

Myrcella glances at Sansa through their mirrors in front of them, “If it’s sleazy bookshop dude ignore it. I don’t care what his non-girlfriend-definitely-seems-like-a-girlfriend said to you at lunch. Ignore it. Simple as that.”

 

“But he’s quoting Joyce.”

 

“Because he knows it’ll get you all hot and bothered.”

 

“He’s not  _that_  sleazy. It’s  _Ulysses_ not the letters.”

 

“Look, do what you gotta do. I say ignore him though. We’ll be in London tomorrow anyway so it doesn’t matter really.”

 

With her makeup set aside she types out a reply.

 

_And what mistakes would you be referring to?_

It takes a solid five minutes of Instagram scrolling for her to receive a reply.

 

_A few. Everything with Cat isn’t what it seems, but everything would be better discussed in person. Is that possible before you leave?_

She could play it off like she doesn’t know. Like she isn’t upset. But Myrcella’s question at the shop took away any chance of that.

_I can only do it after dinner tonight._

_That’s fine. Meet at the shop?_

_Sure._  

  

Him

He’s sobered up now. As if Sansa’s stoniness wasn’t enough. There’s wine, but neither of them have touched it. The sink drips water, but otherwise the Tumbleweed kitchen is so far removed from the main entrance that no outside noises get in. Their window open to the private courtyard in the middle of the apartment building. Alone. Everyone else at Margaery's apartment for an impromptu reading of her latest chapters' edit. A reason for them all to get out and leave the place to him. 

“Do you want water instead?”

“No I’m fine.”

It’s like waiting in line for Duc de Lombards again. Her cheek is between her teeth, she’s sitting straight in the chair. Legs crossed, her foot brushing the leg of the table… Incredibly formal. How does one start a conversation like the one they need to have? Is she even upset? Is this all just overthinking on his part? Does this all matter?

He takes a sip of his wine. A bad choice, but the one he makes nonetheless. It matters to him.

“So you leave tomorrow.”

“I do,” she nods. Finally lifts her own glass, but immediately puts it back down again. Liquid untouched.

“Are you…happy about that?”

A tilt of her head, the ponytail of day old curls brushing over her shoulder. “Not entirely.”

“Why not entirely?” _Will you miss this? Will you remember this? Does this matter?_ The questions that don’t touch his tongue.

“It’s been an enjoyable last week.” The wine glass is in her hand again, brought to her lips. “I had lunch with Cat today after the talk.”

There. She’s broached it. Cat didn’t tell him her lunch involved Sansa. He didn’t think to ask. So absorbed in himself during the afternoon.

“How was that?”

“Enjoyable. I understand a lot more now.”

“About Modernism?” If she wants to play a game he’ll play it. As agonizing as it is.

“Among other things.”

“Sansa.”

“Petyr.”

“What do we...What are we…” The questions all seem contrite. He thinks before he speaks. Always. Except when it comes to her. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Is there a ‘we’ you should be asking about?”

“I don’t know. Do you want that?”

“I don’t want to be a knock off version someone else for you.”

“You’re not.”

“But was I?”

Why does she want to hear that truth? Does she expect a different answer? A lie?

“When Margaery pushed us together, because she did, each time we’ve spent together has been the forced machination of someone else. Actually, let me digress into this point a little more. Even right now is the machination of Cat instead of something we chose to do. She absolutely pushed you to text me today when she got back from our lunch didn’t she?”

The formality of her speech. He cracks a smirk. “Did you write an argumentative paper on the Metro ride over here?”

“Petyr.” She doesn’t laugh. That smile he loves locked away. “I didn’t expect something to happen when I asked you out to drinks. Didn’t expect anything after that second night. But now I do. I don’t want to be some fill in. If you want something from me too, it has to be from _me_. Not a stand in character giving you Cat’s romantic affection. If you don’t want anything past tonight that’s fine too. I just want it out of you whether I should leave right now and not look back or...I don’t even know.”

He rubs his neck while he listens to her, fingernails scratching at his curls. Once she’s done he lets a breath out. “You’ve picked up on it I see that now. That perhaps my first interest in you wasn’t entirely you. But these ‘forced machinations’…That’s not true. The bench? The museum? The Metro? The steps? That was all us. All you.” She lead to all those things. Crepes, the _D’Orsay_ , the woman, those stupid Woody Allen steps.

“Secondhand ideas. Things put into my head from a situation that wouldn’t have progressed naturally.”

“Maybe not, but only because neither of us are the type of people to _naturally_ ask out a stranger. You wouldn’t have asked me out if I hadn’t gone up those stairs thanks to Margaery. I wouldn’t have even gone up there and had a discussion with you. Now I wouldn’t _naturally_ have a conversation that could clear up a lot of discrepancies due to a lack of true communication on both sides. Sometimes you need an outside force. Margaery and Cat are like sisters,” he scoffs, “who don’t know when to stop meddling. But who I’m thankful for all the same. Especially now.”

That’s true for him. Cat is more like a sister. There’s no second-guessing that now.

“You’re not the same person as her. But that's good. You’re not a stand-in. I don’t want you to be that. But I don’t want you to just leave and treat us like, it’s just a story. Some Modernist daydream fulfillment.”

She murmurs, “I don’t want that. I think I’ve made that clear. What is it that you want now?”

 

Her

She’s marked up with purple. She can feel and now see his marks all over her.

 

“Unnecessary,” she says while looking at the lavender patterns on her shoulder. Clashing with the blue of his sheets beneath her. “Completely ridiculous.”

 

“You needed something to remember me by.”

 

“Oh I have that already. You’re never getting that sweater back.”

 

Now she needs to give him some token in return. Some love bite that will fade in time. Then something more concrete.

 

But what? Less than one day left.

 

Hours. He still hasn't said what he wants from her.

 

He’s retreating down her body. Pressing kisses. Soothing the bruises.

 

“It is a bit much I suppose,” he murmurs.

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

Her hands go to his hair and he tilts into her soft scratching.

 

“Is it bad that I don’t want to leave?”

 

Him

 

_Yes absolutely. Is it bad I don’t want you to leave?_

 

“Just stay. Cancel your flight. Don’t go to England. Stay in bed forever. I’ll send Dickens to the airport. He’s a good errand dog for last minute quitting and cancelations.”

 

She laughs. He comes back up to rest on her chest. They’re both barely clothed. Only some semblance of propriety. They don’t need that in bed. Hands drift across the blue lace she came prepared in.

 

“This seems new. And a little telling of where you thought this night might go.”

 

“Mhm. Another one of those secondhand ideas. Fulfilling all the stereotypes of a short term Parisian romance.”

 

He adds another bite to her chest for the reminder of their argument. “I hadn’t noticed when you first showed up…”

 

“What a shame. You just tossed the rest of it to the side.”

 

“Were they really for me?”

 

“Oh no, actually I just wanted a test run on the male gaze and lingerie. It’s for Armand. I’m meeting him before my flight.”

 

His teeth graze her shoulder again. “I don’t appreciate your teasing.”

 

“I don’t appreciate you asking questions with obvious answers. You’re a smart man.” A laugh escapes her lips before his meet them. “Of course it’s for you. The day Margaery stole me away we spent a good two hours in a lingerie shop. I’ve got quite a few packed in my suitcase.”

 

“You can’t go then. You’re staying in this bed while I go get your suitcase from your apartment. I have to see all of the others and fully appreciate your parting gift.”

 

“Then it’s not a parting gift anymore.”

 

“Funny how that works…”

 

 

 

Her

 

An idea hits her. Her lasting parting gift.

 

Unorthodox. Perhaps uncalled for. Completely out of character for herself. Perhaps he wouldn’t like it.

 

But something his romantic side might appreciate? Something to truly erase the confusion that became a precursor to this?

 

If anything it’s daring for her. Already her heart’s tempo increases at the idea.

 

“Why?” He mutters into the pillow his head falls on when she gets out of the bed.

 

Underwear, garter belt, and stockings are piled on the floor and she tsks. A repeat of her tights.

 

“So rude, you didn’t even appreciate them.”

 

“You really came prepared for a fight,” he sighs while watching her. “I can appreciate them without you putting them back on.”

 

“No you need a proper lasting impression of them.”

 

She smiles at his furrowed brows and fastens the last clasp before going to her bag at his desk. A mess once again. It’s preferable this way, especially when she thinks about the way it achieved its current state. 

 

“I don’t think this image will ever leave my mind sweetheart.”

 

That term of endearment and the absolute power she feels over the situation, cement her decision.

 

A pale pink Polaroid camera lands on the bed.

 

“No it won’t,” she smiles coyly.

 

 

 

Him

 

He’s died. There’s no other explanation.

 

The night they went to dinner he must have died of hypothermia on those steps in the rain.

 

That would explain the day of hell he went through until last night/early this morning. It would be the only explanation for this utterly sinful Sansa.

 

He holds the camera in his hands and she’s still leaning against his desk waiting for him to say something. Do something. The mischievous look in her eye is fading and he can’t have that.

 

Ten possible photos are in the camera. Such a light piece of plastic, holding such a heavy message. Hard copy memories of her. Of this moment.

 

“Do I get to use all this film?”

 

“It’s your gift. You get to choose.”

 

“I don’t want to take away any of your possible lasting memories of Paris though.”

 

The floor is cold beneath his feet, but he feels more than warm enough to leave the bed.

 

“Then leave one for me.”

 

One hand holds the camera. The other touches her thigh. He draws a finger along the strap down to the button attaching it all.

 

“Nine photos. That’s an awfully generous gift sweetheart.”

 

Testing how it feels to call her something other than her name. Testing her reaction. He sees her shoulders flutter with a shiver.

 

He really likes that.

 

With a nudge she’s on the desk. Her hand pressed against a sketch of a mockingbird. She’ll have blackened fingers when she moves. He shifts the hand at her thigh to rest on top of hers.

 

“Then you better not waste it.”

 

Her

 

The entire trip has been a game of how much she can handle not being in control.

 

Not knowing what people were saying around her. Not knowing what the signs or menus said. Not knowing where she was going or where she’d end up.

 

Not knowing what would await her every single day. A new experience every minute.

 

Even with Petyr she still doesn’t know. No matter this end of their argument that makes it seem like things will be fine. Who knows what they’ll be. In this moment she doesn’t care. She has control in this new experimental moment.

 

Sure, he guides her every movement. Curls her fingers, papers balling up in her hand. Brushes her hair to one shoulder. Pushes the strap of her bra down, a kiss on the mark he’s already left on her bare shoulder.  Lowers himself between her legs to slowly, achingly move one to rest on the chair. Kisses the calf of the one he lets dangle. Brushes his fingers down her legs. Goosebumps following in their wake.

 

Perhaps she doesn’t have as much control as she thinks.

 

“You’re taking your time.”

 

“I only get nine chances. They all need to be perfect sweetheart.”

 

“Call me sweetheart one more time and you’ll be too busy to get your gift.”

 

 

 

Him

 

With a step back, he assesses her.

 

He can see underneath it all there’s still anxiety with his full attention only on her body. Her façade is a strong one, but still a façade nonetheless.

 

With a step forward, he kisses her.

 

A smile forms and he can feel her relax.

 

“There you are,” he murmurs.

 

“Here I am,” she laughs and white teeth appear. Biting down on her pink lip.

 

“There. Right there.”

 

It flashes and a mechanic whirring accompanies the white photograph. He places it on the desk. To be looked at later. Memorized. Placed in whatever book he’s currently reading as a bookmark forever.

 

“One down.”

 

“Eight to go. Lie down on that desk, won’t you?”

 

 

Her

 

“You’re so diligent.”

 

They’re in his bed again. With six photos down and only two to go. Her state of undress has decreased with the addition of his emerald sweater. Their impromptu photo shoot interrupted periodically with lingering kisses and touches.

 

“I take pride in my work.”

 

“Your work?”

 

“Mhm I’m treating this as diligently as I would any piece of writing or art.”

 

Disjointed piano notes are drifting from next door.

 

The store’s open now. They haven’t slept all night.

 

The notes are all correct, just slow. A brief pause between each of them.

 

Leaving the listeners in anticipation. If they were paying attention that is.

 

“ _God_ Petyr.”

 

“I’m very diligent in  _all_  areas.”

 

It's a while before there's a flash and a mechanic whirring the last photo slides out.

 

He separates the photo from the camera.

 

Places the photo on his nightstand with a few of the others that were taken near his bed; hands her the camera. She wonders when he’ll look at them. Perhaps when she’s gone.

 

One photo left. For her to choose.

 

He’s so camera shy. Already ducking to the opposite side of the viewfinder when she holds it up for an impromptu portrait.

 

“You said you didn’t want to take all my memories away.”

 

“I said of Paris. Not of me.”

 

“But you are my Paris.” There’s a blush and a grimace at the way that comes out, but she doesn’t take it back.

 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning. She appreciates that grin.

 

“There’s one place you need to go. Unfortunately, you have to get dressed.”

 

“Where haven’t I gone?”

 

“You’ll see. It’s not too far away.”

 

Him

 

It’s been over a week since the last time he made this trek.

 

A completely different mindset. A completely different feeling. Walking towards his favorite place with someone at his side. A place for happiness, not a place for pensive self-hatred.

 

Her hand is in his. Warm against the brisk air. The sun isn’t out today. Fitting with it being her last day.

 

As they cross the river a chill runs down his spine. She curls closer. Wrapping her arms around his.

 

He feels a drop of rain on his nose, but only one. The massive cathedral looms in front of them. Grey stone and stained glass.

 

She smiles when he pulls her close. Sharing a kiss while they continue down the sidewalk. 

 

  

Her

 

The last time she was in this courtyard the line lead to the street. Birds and people mixing and mingling in an uncomfortable way. It’s so cold out that barely anyone stays in the courtyard beyond a few minutes for photos.They seek warmer destinations for their photo albums on Facebook.

 

Their student IDs are accepted and they start the climb. The last height of Paris she needs to conquer.

 

With a coat, a scarf, a cardigan, and his sweater she is unbelievably warm by the time they ascend the steps. Only to be reminded of the very reason she’s got so many layers on. Her hair whips around her face, but it’s too cold to pull into a ponytail.

 

The Eiffel Tower is far in front of them. A tiny toothpick in the distance. The city of Paris at their feet.

 

Shakespeare and Company to her left. Petyr to her right.

 

“I’m glad you made me save my last photo.”

 

His grin is broad as the camera flashes.

 

* * *

 

 

Him

 

Another day. Another opening shift.

 

He stretches and glances at the view outside his window. It’s not the cathedral anymore, but he’ll be there soon enough.

 

It’s quiet. Almost too quiet. Two years without tourists outside his bedroom window every morning.

 

He almost misses it.

 

The summer heat is already beginning and it’s only 7am.

 

“Morning,” Margaery greets him from the kitchen table when he enters. A cup of coffee and a half eaten croissant next to her laptop. She’s shifting through two stacks of paper with a red pen.

 

“Already editing? This early?”

 

“I have to get it all done today. I won’t get to work for five days and my editor’s pissed enough as is that she had to extend my deadline.”

 

“Ah yes I forgot.” He hasn’t. He just doesn’t want to think of it. “When does Tommen arrive again?”

 

“Not until tomorrow. But don’t worry he’s getting a room at some hotel.”

 

“Didn’t want to offer him our place?”

 

“Oh I did, his mother just paid for his room so who am I to pass up a free spa trip?”

 

Petyr laughs and grabs coffee for himself. He wants to ask, there’s no doubt they’ve spoken to each other on all forms of social media. But he doesn’t. Like always.

 

They’d called each other every couple of weeks. Time zones giving them trouble. They’d sent letters back and forth. Every bit of the romantic type. She sent him a Joyce letter as a joke. He sent her a Hemingway in return. Then emails. They were both busy. Missed phone calls weren’t returned. Text message apologies. Then, after a year, nothing.

 

It _had_ only been a week.

 

It still hurt. 

 

“Don’t forget we’re doing interviews today.”

 

“How many?” He sighs after taking a sip of the French pressed coffee.

 

“Just three. They’re really strong candidates. You’ll like them.”

 

“Mhm we’ll see.”

 

Margaery sighs, “Don’t hate them just because they aren’t Cat and Eddard okay?”

 

“I won’t. I’ll hate them because they’re awful candidates.”

 

“They’re good. I promise.”

 

He dumps out the last bit of the coffee. “Do you want any more coffee?”

 

“No,” she shakes her head. “Save me a lemon scone when you get to the café though.”

 

His bike is in the hallway and he detaches it from the wall. “What time is the first interview?”

 

“10am!”

 

“Don’t be late! I won’t hire anyone if I have to do it by myself!” He tosses back before he heads out and down the stairs.

 

They’ve moved closer to the store than Margaery’s old apartment and no matter what, he prefers to ride his bike than take the Metro. With cycling he can set his mind on the constant movement. Empty out every other thought.

 

He also sees more of Paris than he ever did before. In full swing no matter what time of day.

 

Sweat’s dripping down his face by the time he reaches the store. He sees a girl with red hair and a yellow sun dress sitting at the tables by the café and his heart drops.

 

But it’s never her.

 

His keys jangle in the door and finally it gives.

 

_Parisian doors are just evil._

He shakes his head wipes the sweat off his brow. He’ll have to call someone about that soon.

 

All of those inane things Cat did for the store he truly took for granted. He sets out on the menial tasks of opening and then sits back. Waiting for the shift to be done with. Hours pass. People pass through. His mind wanders.

 

It’s busy. Everyone seeking relief from the sticky shower of heat outside. Inside is barely any better though with how many people are shopping. He’s readjusting the box of tote bags underneath the counter when the next guest places their book on the wood. He registers that it’s his book, a bit of pride in that. But he continues on with the transaction like normal. 

 

“Would you like this stamped?” He says and looks up.

 

“Does the author prefer his book to be stamped or would he prefer it clean of the commercialized tourism?”

 

The voice accompanies every thought he’s had in the past two years about Hemingway and Joyce, cabernet and crepes, red hair, and Polaroids of blue lace and books. The smile that’s in every pleasant daydream beams at him.

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Petyr.”

 

Her

 

There’s a line forming behind her. Of course there is. She can’t have a conversation with him here without people queuing to buy something. But he doesn’t seem to mind. Two years after all.

 

Neither do the girls behind her. She can hear them speaking about the books they’re about to buy. Exclaiming about the place. The joy of someone’s first time at Shakespeare and Co. She knows it all too well. She was them once. She still is in some ways.

 

Petyr’s not speaking though. Hand still holding the front cover of the book open. His book.

 

“You published a book.”

 

“I did.”

 

“I should sue you, but I suppose it is only half of my face. I don’t know if I’d win.”

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Buying your book. The question still stands. Does the author prefer it stamped or unstamped?”

 

He stamps her book right underneath the dedication.

 

_For the American who asked_

_Êtes-vous perdu ou un battement?_

 

“When did you get here?”

 

“Yesterday. I’m taking a bit of a vacation. Had a little bit of time off from my jobs. Thought I should see Paris in the summer. But you have other customers I should go.”

 

“Wait, don’t-”

 

“I’ll be in the area all day. Don’t worry.”

 

She slips him the paper she prepared before she walked up to the register. “In case you want to call me. I have a working phone this time.”

 

 

 

Him

 

_WHERE are you? I’m not doing these interviews if you aren’t here._

 

It’s ten till ten. Sansa is upstairs. Reading his book. At least he’s pretty sure she went upstairs. His mind blanked as he helped the guests who’d lined up behind her. Stamped their books. Sold a Lucky Dip and a love poem by a poet for hire.

 

He waits outside for the first company candidate. Theon’s managing the register by himself or else Petyr would have just closed the shop. He’ll wait because they really do need someone. But if they’re worthless he won’t waste time.

 

Sansa. Actually Sansa.

 

Her hair is shorter.  The curls may have added to that, but it has been two years. She had to get a few haircuts in that time. The blue collared shirt and knee length white skirt with those gold flats. Her smile. Those perfect teeth hidden beneath the pink lips. Her voice. Unchanged.

 

He cannot do these interviews. It’s sweltering already anyway. Five till ten.

 

He doesn’t even know who the first person is.

 

His phone rings.

 

“Bonjour.”

 

“I’m on my way, but the first person canceled so I called and moved the second person up. They said they were nearby so you shouldn’t have to wait long.”

 

“Margaery I don’t care. Sans-”

 

“I’ll be there soon. Just start without me. But don’t forget the scone!”

 

He goes inside the café for iced lavender mint tea and lemonade. The café is quieter than the store. Everyone’s outside basking in the sweltering Paris heat and humidity like mad people.

 

Robert and Thomas are leaning against the back counter chatting when the bell tinkles over his head.

 

“I thought you were doing interviews with Margaery?”

 

“We are whenever she gets here or the person we’re supposed to interview gets here,” he mutters pouring his drink into a mug of ice. “Mind passing me a lemon scone for her?”

 

Robert leans into the pastry case and puts the scone in a brown paper bag. “Eddard and Cat are dropping by for dinner tonight. Big news apparently. Probably publishing her book finally.”

 

“Probably pregnant,” Petyr smiles. Sips his drink. Thankful for a distraction to keep him from running up the stairs of the shop.

 

It’s not a probably. It’s a definitely. Cat told him when they first found out. That was over two months ago. She’s just starting to show.

 

“Either that or Eddard’s opening another bakery.”

 

“Books, bakeries, or babies? Is this what our lives are coming to?”

 

“Never yours Robert,” Thomas laughs.

 

“Too much drinking for your life to come to that.”

 

“The only way I can truly appreciate Dostoevsky. That’s a fact.”

 

Petyr’s phone rings again.

 

_She said she’d be there in about 15 minutes. Told her you’d meet her outside the café._

 

With that he’s out the door and making his way up the stairs of the bookshop.

 

Sansa’s not in the reading room. There are dozens of people seated about the light room, but no Sansa. Perhaps the research room with Aggie.

 

No there’s a child and a mother at the piano, a group of onlookers there. But she’s not.

 

Perhaps downstairs is where she is. But oh it’s not worth it. Five more minutes with her before he has to leave again.

 

There’s no point. The tables outside are under umbrellas at least.

 

The morning sun doesn’t beat down, just that thick, sickening air.

 

The paper is in his pocket. With her number.

 

He taps at his phone. The new contact saves.

 

Then he waits. Foot tapping. Watching a bridal shoot in the tiny green park across the street. Notre-Dame in the background. He wonders if they’ll ruin her dress by going to the massive courtyard across the way. Just for a lasting photo of that grand cathedral behind a kiss.

 

Kisses and cathedrals. He shakes his head and looks at his phone again. The scone is on the table, the condensation of his lemonade creating a puddle on the wood.

 

 “Bonjour je suis ici pour un entretien d'emploi.”

 

Ah finally she’s arrived.

 

“Te es un retard.”

 

“I’m sorry. I was caught up in a book and, you know, my interview was moved up an hour.”

 

His eyes close and he shakes his head. God. Damn. Margaery. But God bless her too.

 

“Vous devez parler couramment le français. That is, pour obtenir le travail.” He stands up from his place at the wooden table. She’s radiating smugness at duping him.

 

“J'ai étudié pour deux ans. Mon professeur était,” she tilts her hand side to side, “so so. Not nearly as dedicated as you.”

 

His lips purse in an attempt not to smirk. “Well we only had a couple of days…No one can compare to that kind of dedication I suppose.”

 

“No they can’t. Should we get on with the interview?”

 

“Well we should probably wait for your partner in scheming. Margaery will be here anytime hopefully.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re alluding to, but I do have excellent references. One of them is just about to announce her pregnancy to all her friends tonight. You might know her.”

 

A short laugh erupts, “Does that mean that Robert knew you’d be here too? Theon? Everyone but me?”

 

“No. Only Cat, Margaery, and Eddard.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Margaery and Eddard knew when I emailed my application a month ago.”

 

“And Cat?”

 

“The day I left Paris.”

 

 

 

Her

 

It was hard to stop writing to him. But she was busy. Working two jobs at the coffee bar and the library. Pulling doubles to save money. Saving every single tip she made.

 

All the while dedicating her free time to learning French.

 

Reading and writing.

 

She wanted to make sure that she wasn’t doing all of this just to come back to a week fling that didn’t truly matter. That would make things awkward if she got the job. Their argument in her mind during the darkest moments.

 

To make sure that, yes, Paris was the literary and cultural scene she wanted to study a language for two years for and move her entire life.

 

Petyr was always there while she struggled through verbs and phrases. The thought of teaching her stupid little phrases on a wet bench in the middle of the night. Her Polaroid as her bookmark for whatever chapter she was on. It wasn’t entirely for him, but he was still there.

 

It was hard to stop talking to Margaery too. Tommen being forced to play middleman when she’d dropped most of her communication with his girlfriend. Trying to be a sneaky as possible, especially if things didn’t work out.

 

She still remembered the livid phone call she’d received from Margaery. Just twenty minutes after she’d emailed her resume, application, and references. The first look she received when Margaery’s face popped up on her laptop for their Skype interview. Then all she’d cared about was the reassurance that no, Petyr didn’t know. Only Cat.

 

“I will never trust either of them again.” Petyr scoffs. Reminiscent to the first time she saw him. There’s more grey mixed in his hair. His 35 to her 25. So much could have changed within those two years. Whether he could have moved on. Found another person for his affection. Another red head.

 

Except the last letter helped her erase that doubt.

 

Two pieces of paper. The title and dedication pages. A handwritten addition at the bottom.

 

Come visit. There’s a copy waiting for you. 

 

“Oh don’t say that. They did it for your well-being. I kept going back and forth whether this could actually happen.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re-”

 

“Sansa!” Margaery’s hugging her. Strawberry blonde hair enveloping Sansa’s face. Arms tight around her, bouncing around in the most un-Parisian display of loud affection she’s ever experienced in her life. Then her face is free of hair and rose. “Where’s Sansa’s scone?”

 

“Nobody involved in this espionage is getting a scone. But we can get on with the interview now.”

 

“Such a child,” Margaery rolls her eyes, grabs the scone off of the table, and hands it to Sansa. “We’re going inside. It’s hell out here.”

 

 

 

Him

 

Silence.

 

She sips the sparkling water he gave her and looks at the bookshelf in the common area of the apartment. The clear bottle’s condensation drips on her hand. She wipes it away absentmindedly.

 

“Your stacks are all gone.”

 

“Only out here. Margaery likes order in the rooms that everyone can see.”

 

“But you still keep yours the same way in your room?”

 

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

 

That smile. It kills him every time.

 

“I thought we agreed to just talk tonight.”

 

“We can do plenty of talking in my room.”

 

“That’s very true. We can do plenty of talking out here as well.”

 

The windows are wide open and music and laughter reach the sixth floor. Sansa walks to the balcony and looks out at the city.

 

“You’ve got a pretty great view.”

 

“It’s no Notre-Dame,” he shrugs, meeting her outside. His own drink left forgotten on the coffee table.

 

“It’s still beautiful. I never did get over the architecture here. So distinct and original.”

 

“Do you really want to talk architecture?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you really just want to talk tonight?”

 

“I think we need to.”

 

It’s not a complete rejection. Perhaps he doesn’t need to worry about the curly haired guy that was in all of those photos from her hike. 

 

“Why did you stop writing to me?”

 

“I didn’t want my entire reasoning for coming here to be dependent on you. I needed to give myself some headspace.”

 

That sounds rehearsed. A reinforced message she’s prepared. She knew that’d be his first question.

 

“Even when I sent you the letter about the book?”

 

“I had a strict timeline I was following. I couldn’t mess it up by dropping everything and coming here.”

 

“I didn’t expect that, but a letter, a phone call, an email, God even a text would have sufficed.”

 

“I was scared things wouldn’t work out. I was scared you’d change your mind or I’d get here and it wouldn’t be the same without the time constraints. Without some impending departure date that made it all the more romantic.”

 

“I wrote a book about you and you were worried that it wouldn’t be the same because of time constraints.”

 

“Spoilers.”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Maybe you got it all out in your book. You just needed a girl for a story and that girl wasn’t me.”

 

“No. That wasn’t it at all. You weren’t just a story. You aren’t just a story to me.”

 

“‘ _Je Suis Perdu_?’”

 

“The title’s just a title now. I don’t feel so lost.”

 

The music blares as dancers mingle below in the summer night. The brass and the bass outside his window continues on, but the laughter gets quieter as she leads him to his room.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t have this before. When did you get it?”

 

“A year ago.”

 

Her finger traces the lines on his forearm laid upon the covers of his bed. An outline of a craggy, mountain surface he’s never seen in person. Only in photos. He’d been discussing Tolstoy with Robert when he checked his phone. Saw the email about her hike. Barely read it, first glancing at the photos of her and the mountain. A sunrise over a lake. Then read her email. Soaking in her love for it. Read the sentence: _It’s bittersweet with Notre-Dame on my mind. Thanks to you, it’s now a comparable manmade majesty in its own way_.  Took four shots of vodka and retreated to a tattoo shop.

 

“When I sent you-”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m sorry I stopped writing back. That wasn’t the right way to do things.”

 

He doesn’t say it’s okay. It’s not. But she’s here.

 

“You’re a Shakespeare and Company employee now.”

 

“I am. I’ve even got my own room there now.”

 

“Which one?” He already knows. His old room is the only available one.

 

“The one with this amazing view of Notre-Dame. I hear the tourists are pretty noisy though. Especially the Americans.”

 

“They’re the worst of them all. With their Shakespeare socks and their idealized versions of Paris and their pesky Polaroid cameras.”

 

“Now you’re just being mean. I never got to see how those turned out.”

 

The copy of A Moveable Feast she accidentally left is in his nightstand’s top drawer. He pulls out the small paperback and places it on the comforter over her crossed legs.

 

 

 

Her

 

The pages are more worn than they were two years ago. Underlined and _dog-eared_. Dog-eared even though eight chapters, that she presumes are his favorites, are bookmarked with a Polaroid each.

 

“I look like I got beat up.” She laughs. Her head on his shoulder.

 

He kisses her hair. “It’s just the harsh flash.”

 

“And the copious amounts of hickeys.”

 

“They faded away though.”

 

“Not in these photos.”

 

“Do you like them?”

 

“The hickeys or the photos?”

 

He kisses her neck. “The photos.”

 

“You have quite an eye. I don’t even recognize myself though."

 

“Do you still have yours?”

 

“Mhm. You know what I regret about that day?”

 

“That we didn’t find a way to have sex in Notre Dame.”

 

“ _No_. ”

 

Foreheads touch. Her hands caress his shoulders and arms finally resting on his chest. A scar she never asked about running the length of his sternum. Never asked about because there wasn’t time. Now…She could ask him anything. Anytime.

 

“Then what is it you regret?”

 

“Getting on that plane.”

 

“Well, there’s no point dwelling on that.”

 

“I didn’t have to go to England though. I could have stayed here and spent more time with you. If I’d done that maybe I wouldn’t have doubted everything so much. Maybe I wouldn’t have stopped writing you. There was so much unnecessary pain caused. I wouldn’t have worried when you didn’t write back or-”

 

“Sansa.”

 

A kiss on her neck, her cheek, her nose.

 

“Look at where you are right now. Look at where we are right now.”

 

“I know I just, I’m sorry-”

 

“Tonight’s not for that anymore. The moment we came in here it stopped being about that. You don’t have an impending departure date anymore remember?”

 

She doesn’t. She’s here until her worker’s visa runs out. She’s here until she her next step after that. It’s not just nine days. Or eight. Or a week. Or a few hours anymore.

 

There’s no countdown for how long she can stay in this bed with him.

 

* * *

 

 

Them

 

“Bonjour, erm, où est le meilleur centre littéraire, uh for the-” the boy fumbles with his translation book.

 

“We all speak English here if that’s any help,” she smiles. “Unless you were trying to practice. Then I can help with that too.”

 

“Oh no English is perfect. Fantastic actually. I’m sure you get this all the time, but you seem liked you’d be the expert on where the best literary neighborhood is?”

 

She feels Petyr’s smirk radiating from behind her as he works on finalizing the schedule of upcoming fall and winter events. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction of turning around.

 

“Past or present?”

 

“Present. I did the whole Saint Germain thing, visited Hemingway’s place,  _Café de Fleur_ and  _Les Deux Magots_ , but it just didn’t feel right.”

 

“I can understand that completely. It’s how I felt too when I first came here. Well Montmarte is a pretty artsy area have you visited there yet?”

 

“No not yet.”

 

“That would be the best area to start with, probably. Of course if you’re here long you can always come back here for a little solace. We’re hosting a workshop on writing that’s open to the public tomorrow. There are a few spaces left. And then…Petyr which author is here to give a talk on Thursday?”

 

“Dave Eggers.” Without looking away from the desktop in front of him, he hands her a bookmark with a doodle of Aggie on one side and a list of their summer events on the other. She passes it on to the boy in front of her.

 

“Really? I love him! I’m not much of a writer, but that sounds perfect.”

 

“Well there you go! That’ll be at around 6ish. Just outside.”

 

“Thank you so much you’ve been so kind. I’ll let you know how Montmarte treats me.”

 

“Of course that’s what I’m here for. Have a good evening!”

 

The store is still relatively busy for a Tuesday evening, but it’s slowing down. The door chiming every so often with a rush of fall air as people leave. A less steady stream of people entering the doors. More leaving in groups of twos and threes.

 

Petyr stands up and stretches. She swivels her chair to smile at him.

 

“All done?”

 

“Almost. We need to find two more people for the Roxanne Gay panel, but other than that everything looks good until winter break. I’m going to go get some tea. Do you want some?”

 

“Mmm, yes please. Can you also ask Theon if he checked the ribbons on the typewriters?”

 

“I’m absolutely sure he didn’t, but I’ll ask anyway.”

 

“Thank you.” She leans up to press a kiss to his cheek before he ducks under the counter. The bell on the door chimes behind him.

 

The black cat clock meows eight times and Sansa glances at her phone when a notification from Instagram pops up. She rolls her eyes and opens the app to reply to Margaery’s comment on her most recent photo from that morning.

 

_Tell Petyr that hats aren’t his thing. He looks like a taxi driver._

_@mtyrell come back and tell him yourself._

It’s not long before she gets another Instagram notification.

_Can’t, sorry, California’s too nice. It’s 70 degrees here. All. The. Time. @sansacomma you’re gonna have to show him yourself until he makes an account._

 

With a shake of her head she continues to scroll through her feed. Margaery’s American book tour has earned a blue checkmark next to her name. Photos of palm trees, the beach, and In-N-Out have taken over her profile and a pang for home hits Sansa for a moment. One she hasn’t felt in a long time.

 

She types in her sister’s Instagram handle and looks through the old photos that haven’t been updated in a month. Arya was the wrong one to choose. Robb updates more. Even if it's just campaign photos mostly. A few baby photos with Jeyne and family photos interspersed. The thought that perhaps she should call them later crosses her mind. But her sibling checkup is interrupted by guests coming to the register.

 

She helps them. Conversation stilted when she doesn’t know their home language. But interesting nonetheless. To see what books they choose for her to gently press the imprint of Shakespeare onto the title page. Petyr pops by to drop off her tea, but it’s finally picked up a little bit so when he immediately leaves again she doesn’t get an explanation. The last stragglers are heading out with their purchases. Last minute customers stumbling upon the store. Forty-five minutes goes by before Petyr comes back.

 

He’s holding two bags of food, the smell wafting her way. “I was craving curry and then Cat called to say that Eddard was going to stay home with Edmure so she could come help with the last minute stuff for tomorrow. Like the typewriter ribbons.”

 

“Theon really didn’t do it? That’s all he had to do before he went to the café!”

 

“It’s fine. Everything else is set up, don’t worry. I think Cat needs a break anyway. You can only take so much of Ed squared at a time. I’ll take this upstairs and then be right back to help you.”

 

“No don’t worry about closing up. I’ve got it. I will need help with those typewriters though. We need to move them into the reading room anyway. Since  _someone_  thinks that people bringing their own laptop diminishes the writing process.”

 

“Writers who come here, come to live out their dreams of the twenties. There weren’t MacBooks in the twenties.”

 

“Probably would have been easier on Fitzgerald.”

 

“He would have spilled gin all over it. We wouldn't have gotten _Gatsby_ what a blessing that would have been."

 

“You got me there.”

 

“I always do.”

 

She shoos him away with a roll of her eyes at his cheeky air kiss as the last customer of the night makes their way to the counter. When they leave and she’s finally able to lock the doors and dim the lights she opens a notebook by the register. A pen marks the page; freshly inked that day with:

 

 

27 August 2020

 _Ulysses (The Corrected Text)_ James Joyce

 

With pen in hand she adds:

 

 _I Am Not Your Negro_ James Baldwin

 

The pattern of names makes her smile. The days that make her happiest are when the first book purchased and the last book purchased correlate somehow, it’s a very good day when they’re the same book. See what people leave the store with. A way to measure the day in literature. As if she needed another. Upstairs she can hear tables and chairs being moved about. She looks at Robert’s writing from that morning. 2020.  

 

A year in Paris. A year with Petyr.

 

There’s one more year to go on her visa. An election happening in her home country.

 

But while that’s in the back of her mind with letters stamped with official seals making their way to the store she doesn’t need to worry about that now. There’s Indian food, friends, writing, and Petyr at the forefront of her evening.

 

The red stairs are familiar, but inspiring every time. Painted white words like a mantra for each step she takes. The painted greats looking eye level with her. A shower of rain beginning outside. Petyr’s laptop plays some new jazz singer’s crooning version of classics. The Tumbleweed Hotel door is open and the tables and chairs are rearranged. Ten typewriters set up on the desk in front of the window, while the main circular table in the middle holds plates of food and bottles of wine.

 

“Cat’s downstairs. I told her to go bug Theon to let her in.” He walks in the propped open door with his hands full of wine glasses. 

 

She takes two from his hands and sets them on the table. “Lazy.”

 

“I just rearranged  _all_ of this and you’re calling me lazy?”

 

His smirk deepens when she wraps her arms around his neck, one hand going to his curls that have greyed even more in the past year. An addition that, time and time again, she has to repeat that she  _appreciates_  rather than dislikes. Her nails affectionately scratch his head. He pulls her closer. Arms around her waist, forcing the space between them to disappear.

 

“I just wanted a second alone with you and I’m  _lazy_?”

 

His mouth is at her ear. Traveling down her jaw. Teeth graze her lips before his own meet hers.

A hum reverberates in his chest.

 

“I didn’t think of it that way,” she teases with a smile. “We better get this typewriter business finished with quickly. I kind of like this idea of being alone with you.”

 

“One of many positive things about Margaery being gone.”

 

“You miss her.”

 

“Never.”

 

Cat and Theon’s voices drift up from the store below.

 

“That wasn’t nearly enough time.”

 

“Go away we’re busy!” He shouts in the direction of the stairs.

 

“Stop whatever you’re doing right now! I refuse to walk into that sort of business again." Cat’s voice yells back at him.

 

Warm, and utterly blissful. Laughter fills the room. Wine is poured. A night continues like many nights they've shared in the past year. The writing, debating, laughing, dancing, eating, singing, drinking, all the verbs that add up to them just living. Enjoying life with no ending to that enjoyment in sight. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LORDY IT'S DONE  
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this and dealing with me taking five months to write three chapters. You guys and your comments your kudos your bookmarks that expressed your interest kept this going.
> 
> Now I must retreat to the other fics eyeing me angrily.  
> Looking at you Poli Sci. Ya damn demon. 
> 
> (This will probably be edited in a couple of days. But nothing major should change. Just those tiny little errors bound to happen in any piece of work.)
> 
> SERIOUSLY THANK YOU GUYS.  
> -Kelsey

**Author's Note:**

> "The Universe in Your Hand" by Christophe Galfard and the subsequent Q&A on Shakespeare and Company's website.  
> "A Moveable Feast" by Ernest Hemingway  
> "Bookshop Memories" by George Orwell  
> "Finnegans Wake" & "Ulysses" by James Joyce  
> "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" by Anne Brontë
> 
> https://shakespeareandcompany.com/event/725/freemans-panel-literature-under-trump-with-john-freeman-aleksandar-hemon-zz-packer


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